


This Lift is Out of Service

by checkthemargins



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkthemargins/pseuds/checkthemargins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is a heart-broken physical therapist just back in London after a six month stint in the States. He's trying to get his life together. Getting caught up with new patient Harry Styles was never part of the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Lift is Out of Service

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the people featured in this fic. This is just for kicks, and not at all real.  
>  **Warnings:** angst, sap, sex, very vague medical-ness
> 
> Thank you to Lucy, Sam, Jay and Helen, who listened to me whine about this fic for literal months, and then gracefully agreed to beta and Brit-pick it once I finally got it done. You guys are so amazing and I don't know what I'd do without you.
> 
> This is a Nick/Harry fic, but as I am who I am, it contains _a lot_ of Louis. Considering he's in a coma for two-thirds of it, I feel like that's quite a feat I've achieved. I am sorry in advance for those of you just in it for Harry and Nick though, that's my bad. :/
> 
> Please read the notes regarding medical stuff at the end. I am clearly not a doctor.
> 
> Finally, I hope that you enjoy!

**This Lift is Out of Service**

A rough wave of emotion swells up in Nick's chest when the plane breaks through the wall of cloud and the whole mess of London is right there outside the window, ten thousand feet below. He's not a nervous flyer, but his palms are sweating and his face feels overly warm. It's his city, his home, and when he was away sometimes he missed it so much it physically hurt, but the sight of it now feels overwhelming. He swallows hard and looks away.

There's a little boy sitting next to him, his mother and baby sister asleep in the aisle seat. Nick's always been good with kids, and this one's spent most of the flight prattling on and on to him. Nick's a very good listener, and he _oo_ ed and _ahh_ ed in all the right places for every story, and shared a wry grin with the boy's mother when he zonked out mid-sentence a few hours ago. He's awake again now, though, and eating his way messily through a small bag of crisps.

"Are you afraid?" he asks. It's accusatory, like he might make fun of Nick if Nick says yes. Nick tries to remember around what age that sort of little kid dickishness starts up. For his niece it was pretty much as soon as she started talking.

"A bit," he says. The boy—Tommy—makes a face, and Nick makes one back. Tommy laughs his dinky child laugh.

"It's safer in an aeroplane than it is in a car," he says, as though he's memorized it.

"It's not really the plane I'm scared of," Nick explains.

"What are you scared of then? Aren't you too old to be scared of things?"

"You're never too old to be scared of things, Thomas," says Nick. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "And I'm afraid of...well, being back in London, I suppose."

"You're scared of _London?_ " Tommy asks, wrinkling his nose in what Nick considers an overly-judgmental way.

"Well it's quite big, innit?"

Tommy has crumbs all over his mouth and his fingertips are inexplicably orange. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Nick as though Nick is the most absurd thing he's ever seen. "Well, I think you're too old to be scared of things because they're _big_."

A laugh is startled out of Nick, and Tommy looks pleased. The pilot's voice comes on over the speaker, and Tommy is quickly distracted by his mum and sister waking up and having to put his seat belt back on. Nick looks back out the window at Heathrow airport sprawled out below and takes a deep breath and holds it. Holds it. Holds it.

Pixie, Aimee, Matt and Ian are waiting for him when he gets through security. They're holding a huge, neon yellow banner with sparkly pink writing on it that says _WELCOME HOME, GRIMMY_. Nick drops his carry-on, laughing, and opens his arms. They all wrap around each other right there in the middle of the terminal, absolutely in the way and unapologetic about it. Most of Nick's closest friends are people he works with. Aimee is a pediatric nurse and Ian's a nurse in A &E. Matt's a trauma surgeon and Pixie is the hospital's golden child, and renown trauma specialist and surgeon. All of their jobs overlap on a regular basis, and they all work so much they end up sharing late night meals in the staff cafeteria more often than not.

"You're home, you're home!" Pixie says, kissing his cheek over and over.

"How was America?" asks Ian.

"Did you meet any cowboys?"

"He was in Minnesota, Pixie, not Texas," Matt says.

"Aren't there cowboys all over America?" Pixie asks.

Nick can't stop smiling. It's a relief, really. He squeezes them all one more time and then steps back to shoulder his bag again. 

"Where's Gregory?" he asks. Greg is his oldest friend, and really the only close one that Nick has outside the hospital. It's weird that he's not here to greet him, or at least yell at him for leaving in the first place, like he's done every time Nick's spoken to him in the last six months.

"Working," Pixie answers, rolling her eyes. "He says that you're not worth losing billable hours over, and that you smell funny."

"That's just an outright lie," says Nick. "I'm a proper bed of roses."

"You're stalling!" Aimee says loudly. "Tell us about America!"

Nick grins at her tiredly. "I'm bloody starving. Take me out for dinner and I'll tell you everything."

"Of course," says Pixie. Nick winds an arm around her waist as they start walking back toward the entrance and the car park. He'd known the other three would meet him, but Pixie is a surprise.

"And why aren't you off cutting into people and fixing their insides, then? I thought you were supposed to be in Madrid for some posh, super-successful surgeon's conference?"

She preens, grinning when he laughs. "Got a call from Henry that I was needed back here."

"Oh?"

"Two kids—well, I say kids, one is twenty-three and the other twenty-five"

"Kids," Nick agrees.

"They slid on black ice on the motorway and veered into the path of a lorry. One of them was impaled on a piece of fiberglass that cut into his intestine and shattered his ribcage. The fiberglass just shattered inside him, too, it was like removing shrapnel."

"That's absolutely disgusting," says Nick.

Pixie hums. "He was stable but critical, so they called me home since I'm the best—"

"Natch."

"—and I went straight from the airport to the hospital for operation. Fifteen hours and we lost him twice to shock."

"Jesus," Nick winces. "He all right now?"

"Coma. The tear in his intestine caused sepsis. It was a relatively clean puncture. This was about five weeks ago. He's just recently out of Intensive Care. I'm reasonably optimistic? I've stayed nearby while his internal injuries heal. I've grown rather attached to him and his friends."

"Was it the younger one or the older on?"

"Older. He's the cutest little thing, too. His boyfriend’s been camped out by his side since he was brought in. Makes me tear up just thinking about it." It really does, too. Nick squeezes her as she laughs at herself, rubbing at her eyes. "Anyway, from what I gather, his best mate—the other one—he'll be yours. This one will too, once he's well enough to start PT, but we've already booked you an appointment with Harry for Monday."

"Not even a grace period?" Nick asks, taking his arm back and sighing dramatically. "Not a nice easy sports injury? You welcome me back with a victim of a possibly fatal car crash?"

"Just wait 'til you see the x-rays," Pixie tells him.

"Are you talking about Harry?" Ian asks.

Matt groans, and the others laugh. Nick tilts his head curiously. "What about him? Is he awful?"

"No!" Aimee says. "God, no, he's the most charming boy ever."

"What's with Finchy then?"

Pixie and Aimee laugh outright. Ian is a bit more sympathetic, but he's still grinning as he explains, Matt walking with his head hung. "When he was brought in Matt and Michael—you know Michael, that huge orderly that transferred in about a year ago? They were trying to get him onto a gurney and Harry was going absolutely mad trying to get to Louis. He nearly broke Matt's nose."

"He hit him?" Nick says, trying not to smile. "Is Louis the other one?"

"Yes to both. Finchy was like, trying to reason with him, and Harry's obviously hysterical, not listening to a word he's saying, and they wheel Louis by and Finchy tries to hold him back and Harry just decks him and takes off."

"Keep in mind that his shoulder's pulled so far out of socket that his arm is turned the wrong way, and his knee is so wrenched he can't even use his left leg. So he's lurching through A&E like a zombie, screaming after his friend —"

"That part was really, really horribly sad," Aimee cuts Matt off, frowning. "But Matt was literally backed into a wall clutching at his face, like this," she cups her hands over his nose, so her voice is muffled when she talks again. "And blood was overflowing through his fingers."

"Oh, _Finchy_ ," Nick coos, and steps up to rub at Matt's shoulders. Matt bats him away, scowling, but then rolls his eyes and reluctantly smiles.

"Whatever, he apologized later."

"He's the absolute sweetest," Pixie says.

It's a late afternoon in January, so as soon as they step outside into the car park it's positively freezing. Nick ducks his chin into the collar of his jacket. It's raining, too. He can see it coming down through the gaps in the garage. Nick blinks at it.

"Home sweet home, yeah?" says Ian.

Nick opens his mouth to say something, thinks of the empty flat he'll be going back to, to the huge part of his life that's no longer there. He takes a second to swallow, mouth oddly dry. "Yeah," he says, tossing his bag into the boot of Finchy's car. "Home sweet home."

Nick's favorite restaurant in all of London is a trendy, posh place called Richters. It's quite famous, and they don't have a reservation, but since the chef is one of Nick's closest friends, the five of them get in without much of a fuss, no more than Henry rolling his eyes and hugging Nick tightly to welcome him home.

"So how was it, then?" Aimee asks once they've all ordered. They've been sat down for ten minutes and Nick is already halfway through a glass of wine. It's helping settle his nerves.

"It was great," says Nick. Which is a phenomenal lie, as he mostly spent five months hiding away from all non-professional human interaction. It was an internship with Orthopedics at the Mayo clinic that Nick was invited to as a representative of his hospital. He attended a lot of seminars, as well as led a few, and was able to work with pediatric patients, which he'd never done before. It was trying and exhausting and exhilarating and it kept him very, very busy and well away from thoughts of London and his empty flat and everything it represented.

He'd like to think that he grew as a person while he was there, but it's more likely that he regressed, judging by the overwhelming need to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible just an hour after landing.

"That's it?" Matt asks, eying Nick imperiously. "You run off for half a year and all we get is 'it was great'?"

Nick sticks his tongue out at him.

Oh yeah, he's definitely regressed.

By the time he's dropped off at his flat, he's pissed enough that it takes him three tries to get his key in the door, and he's lost the ability to actually lift his bag, so he has to drag it over the threshold. He's grateful that he paid for the rest of the things in his little apartment in Minnesota to be shipped, because anymore luggage might've left him sobbing in the stairwell.

It's freezing because the heat's been off, and depressingly clean. When he left, there were still t-shirts that weren't his on the floor and another toothbrush by the sink in the bathroom and little knick-knacks from the last three years strewn around. He wonders how long ago Chess stopped by, if it was right after Nick left, if he had any sort of mourning period at all. There's a note from him on the magnetic notepad on the fridge. It says, "Be happy, Nicky."

Nick leaves his luggage in the middle of the kitchen, crashes headfirst and fully clothed onto his bed, and sleeps for seventeen hours straight.

 

 

Charming Harry who punched Matt turns out to be Harry Styles, a twenty-three year old sound technician for Sony Records. He's a few inches shorter than Nick, with a wealth of swooping dark curls, a long, lean body, distinct pigeon-toedness even with the brace around his knee, and _dimples_. He offers Nick a winsome smile and stands carefully from his seat at his friend's bedside and offers Nick a hand to shake.

"You must be Nick?" he says. His voice is deep, and as slow as treacle. He pushes his hair back out of his green eyes with his only good hand and smiles again. He runs a dangerous line between stunningly sexy and utterly adorable. Nick smiles back, hand still warm from Harry's grip.

"At your service," he drawls. "You should sit again."

Harry does, easing back down into the wheelchair he's been cruising around in since he was in a cast. Nick pulls up one of the uncomfortable chairs by the wall and takes a seat, Harry's file on his lap. This is all rather unorthodox, but Nick's fluid. It's fucking freezing on the ground floor where his office is, anyway.

"Sorry to make you come up here," Harry says, gesturing to his friend. "I promised I wouldn't leave him alone."

Nick takes a moment to look over Louis. He's settled on his back and he's little, the bumps of his feet not quite reaching the end of the bed. He's covered up to his bellybutton, and the bulk of bandages is visible under the hospital gown he's wearing. His hair is in soft fringe over his forehead and he's got a giant tube shoved down his throat, which makes Nick want to gag a bit, quite honestly. Nick looked over his file very briefly, as once he's up he'll be in Nick's hands for recovery from the reconstructive surgery on his hip. His face isn't scarred like Harry's is from the broken window, but he looks unwell and very, very small.

"It's not a problem," he replies. "Aren't there usually four or five of you in here?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, yeah. Niall and Bressie and Zayn and Perrie are at work, though, and Liam's a couple of doors down getting some sleep."

"And this one is Louis."

Harry's answering grin as he looks at his friend is unbearably fond and sad. "That's Louis." He's quiet for a moment, so silent that Nick's about to apologize for no apparent reason, but then Harry smirks and says, "Don't worry, though. I don't think he'll bother us."

Nick blinks, and then snorts, clearing his throat importantly. "Down to business, then."

"Of course."

Harry apparently broke the fuck out of his kneecap, but his reconstructive surgery six weeks ago was highly successful and, while he's got a bit more metal in him now than he probably ever wanted, he can start physio right away.

"We'll be making great use of the pool down in the gym," Nick tells him, once he's explained everything else. "It's easier on the knee. You'll graduate up to, y'know, working on firm ground eventually."

"I have the best swimming trunks," Harry tells him, as though this is relevant. Nick quirks an eyebrow.

"I'm sure you do," he says, and Harry smiles, dimples pushing into his cheeks. "Glad to see that you're focusing on the important bit of this."

"Did you know it's the only part of the crash I don't remember?" Harry says thoughtfully.

"I did not know that," says Nick.

Harry tilts his head. Christ, but he's cute. Endearing, even. "They said that when the car flipped I smashed my knee into the dashboard. I don't even remember it hurting. I remember my shoulder, though."

"We'll be working with that too, since you've damaged the tissue a bit. Not as bad as it could be, though. Or should be, really, considering the horror stories I heard of you running about the corridors with your arm turned the wrong way ‘round. Do you remember that bit?"

Harry's cheeks go pink and he laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck ruefully. "Yeah. I feel really bad about hitting Dr. Fincham—"

"He needs it, every once in a while."

Harry shakes his head, an easy grin on his face. "No, no one does. I was like, crazy with adrenaline, and they were taking Lou away from me."

It's startlingly honest, so much so that it takes Nick aback. Harry doesn't look over at Louis mournfully or anything, his attention still firmly placed on Nick. He doesn't look like he's about to cry. He seems fine, but there's something so intensely bruised about the way he says it that it pulls on Nick's heartstrings.

"Do you want to see your x-rays?" Nick asks. It's out of nowhere, but he tries to look confident and haughty as though this is an appropriate response to what Harry just said. Harry looks confused, but then shrugs, easy.

"Sure."

"This one is pretty good." Nick takes the one of his knee out of the file, and walks over to the fluorescent panel on the wall of Louis's room to clip it up so Harry can see. There're two, one of the shattered patella before surgery, and another of the reconstructed bone, complete with screws.

"That's fucking sick," Harry says, sounding delighted. He wheels his chair over so he can see better. He's still got one arm in a sling, so Nick hooks his foot under the footrest on the wheelchair and tugs him to turn the right way. Harry breathes a 'thanks' and tilts his head to consider his x-rays. "Do you think I could sell this and make a million pounds?"

"Absolutely," says Nick. "I have friends that can help. Art friends, you know."

He looks at Harry and his stupid curls and his horrific posture and his slow, slow voice and brutal honesty and thinks, _Fuck._ Before he gets further than that thought, someone shuffles into the room. The new arrival is broad-shouldered with darkish, rumpled hair and the most expressive eyebrows Nick's ever seen. He's very handsome, but at the moment looks like he's not slept in days. His hands are shaking, but he offers a confused, polite smile.

"Hello," he says. His voice is still thick with sleep.

"Hey Liam," Harry says, and his voice is very warm and soothing. His expression is worried, eyebrows drawn together as he looks at Liam. "This is Nick. He'll be my physical therapist."

"Hiya," Nick says, offering a hand. Liam shakes it firmly, his grip tight. It feels more like desperation than anything personal, though. Liam pushes his hands into the pockets of his loose trackies and looks from Harry to Louis to Nick.

"He's just got his cast off, though. Is that safe?"

Nick nods. "Perfectly safe. I won't have him running laps until the second appointment."

Liam looks blank and wide-eyed, and Harry says, "He's joking, Li."

Liam snorts and scrubs a hand over his face. He's got a gold band on his left ring finger. Nick's chest tightens painfully. This really isn't what he signed up for. He's supposed to be handed the patients once they're mostly put back together again. He's not supposed to be fraternizing with their bloody significant other while they lie in a coma.

"Sorry," Liam says, sounding exhausted. "I don't mean to..."

Nick waves a dismissive hand. "S'fine, mate."

"I just don't want Haz hurt worse." He says it very earnestly.

"I won't hurt him worse," Nick promises.

"He's gonna work with Lou, too, when he wakes up," Harry says.

"Yeah," says Liam. He blushes a bit. "I sort of looked you up, y'know, after they told me. You've got really great feedback."

This kid can't be much older than Harry, and he's running background checks on Nick. "I'm pretty good at my job," Nick agrees, voice dry.

"I have to be careful, is all that's all. It's not that I wouldn't, like, trust the doctors or physical therapists or whoever else. It's just, I have to be sure. It's Louis."

Again, this unfiltered honesty pointed right at him. Nick shrugs as casually as he can, smiles. "I understand," he says.

Liam offers a small smile, and then yawns hugely and walks up to the side of the bed. He plants his elbows on the short frame and smooths Louis's hair back off his forehead, murmurs a soft, "Hey, babe."

Nick looks away at once and catches Harry's gaze. Harry looks sad for the first time in the last hour they've been going over his treatment plan, his expression very soft and the bruises and cuts on his face more apparent. He smiles a bit, but Nick can already tell he's a horrible liar, even if he’s not saying anything.

Nick doesn't know what to do, so he clears his throat and pulls the x-rays off the panel, pressing them carefully back into Harry's file. "Right, well. It was nice to meet you, Liam, and I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

Liam turns back around to say goodbye, looking ages older than he did just a few seconds ago. Harry grins more genuinely. "Tomorrow," he agrees.

As an afterthought, Nick adds, "See you later, Louis," and Harry smiles so beautifully at him that Nick feels his breath catch in his throat. He leaves, quickly, off to an hour-long appointment with a twenty-eight-year-old woman with a sports injury whom he isn't attracted to in the least.

 

 

He's finished unpacking the last of his things shipped over from America around eight in the evening, and at least the flat looks lived in again. There're teacups in the sink and it smells like pizza and his favorite blanket is thrown over the back of the sofa and it took three days, but it's finally _warm_ again. He takes the last of the boxes out to the garage, flattened out so he can use them again later if he ever moves house again. He's got his iPhone plugged in, and Rhianna fades into The Vaccines over his speakers.

He pours himself a glass of wine and drops down onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, waiting for the relief to kick in, since he's been dreading unpacking since well before he left Minnesota in the first place.

It doesn't. He opens his eyes and sips at his drink, looking around. Everything is very familiar. He lived here for years before Chess moved in, it's not like it was always _theirs_ , and Chess never gave a shit what sort of renovations Nick ever wanted to make, so there really isn't even anything that should remind Nick of him. But his chest is hurting, and it's _so quiet_ , even with music. He'd Before his stint in Minnesota, Nick hadn't lived alone in almost four years.

"This sucks," he says aloud. No one answers. He sets his wineglass down and falls into a heap across the sofa, pushing his face into the cushion until he can't breathe. He _hates_ being alone. It's so _boring_. He thinks of calling up Pixie, but she's in surgery tonight, and then about calling Alexa or Greg or Fiona or some other of his friends he hasn't seen since he's been back, but they're throwing him a welcome home party this upcoming Saturday and it would be pathetic to call them up on a Monday and ask them to come over so his house won't be so quiet.

Instead, he drinks his way through a bottle of wine, and then goes out to Tesco to get another. As he's walking up to the entrance, something darts out from behind a bin and makes him jump, and possibly yell embarrassingly. He's the only one outside because it's eight forty-three and pouring rain, so no one else hears. He holds a hand over his racing heart and looks down at the culprit.

It's a cat. It's the single fattest cat that Nick has ever seen. It's very fluffy and has a black face and black-tipped ears and a black tail and black feet. The rest of it is kind of a dirty white, and he thinks it must be a stray, despite its size, because its fur is horribly unkempt and it limps a bit when it walks. Nick watches it, and it sits right there on its arse and looks up at him.

"Hello," he tells it.

It lies down and rolls onto its back. Nick frowns at it and goes inside.

It's freezing in the shop, especially since Nick is soaked through. The man at the till looks at him suspiciously when he sets his purchases—two bottles of red wine and a huge box of chocolates—on the counter.

"Valentine's Day is next month," he tells Nick.

"Valentine's Day is _right now_ ," Nick argues, in a very serious voice. The man frowns at him but it's softer, like he thinks Nick might be crazy. Nick does his best to look as crazy as possible.

The cat is still there when he steps back outside, bag of booze and chocolate in hand. It wanders over to him and sits down in front of him again. It doesn't make any noise and its eyes seem to follow him everywhere. Nick is very much a dog person. The cat looks very superior.

"I've not got any cat food," he tells it. "And my landlord will make me pay extra in rent."

The cat twitches its ears very persuasively.

They stare at each other for a long time, and then Nick sighs heavily and crouches down to scoop the cat up into his arms. It weighs approximately five-hundred stone, but it doesn't struggle, just goes limp and hangs as though dead in the crook of his elbow.

"I don't have any cat things at all," he says crossly. "What are you having me do?"

Nevertheless, he puts the cat into his car and goes back to the shop. He supposes he'll need cat things, then.

 

 

Harry's swimming trunks are neon pink with turtles on them. Nick's are navy blue with starfish.

"Mine are better," says Harry.

"Lies," says Nick.

Harry holds up both hands, placating. "All right, all right. Agree to disagree."

"Hm," Nick replies, noncommittal. Harry grins, all dimples. He's really hot, shirtless and toned and well-muscled, though he's got a scar in the shape of a seatbelt strap on his chest. Nick himself is just sort of scrawny, truth be told, but he's wearing a hospital-issue lycra top, so he's not in competition with Harry's ridiculous six-pack.

It's barely gone ten in the morning, and the appointment Nick had just before this was with the most stubborn old man Nick's ever dealt with. It was exhausting. Now here's Harry, smiling lazily and looking perfectly serene in his wheelchair and knee brace and turtle swimming trunks. Nick drops a couple of fluffy blue towels onto his lap and wheels him over to the poolside.

There are a couple of other people in, a little girl being led through shoulder rotations by Nick’s friend Gillian, and a man being put through some rather strenuous knee exercises, obviously in pain, with his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Harry sees him and frowns darkly up at Nick. Nick shrugs. "You've got a while before we get there, don't worry."

Harry just frowns more deeply, and Nick grins. "All right, get the brace off, let's see the damage."

"It's gross," says Harry.

"Probably," Nick agrees. "Off with it."

He crouches down to help undo the Velcro straps on the brace, and then taps Harry's leg until Harry lifts up so Nick can pull it off. Kid's got a pair of knobbly knees. Nick touches the pads of his index and middle finger to the inside of the injured one. Harry moves it compliantly so Nick can better see the wicked scar. It's not the worst he's seen by far, but he gives a low, appreciative whistle anyway.

"That'll be something to show off to the ladies," he drawls.

"And lads," Harry says.

Nick's gaze flickers up to him. He's grinning, pushing his hair out of his face with an elastic headband that smushes his curls back endearingly. "S'like that, is it," says Nick.

"Yeah. Problem?"

Nick snorts, shakes his head. "No. C'mere."

He stands up and leans down so he can help Harry out of the chair, shrugging under one of Harry's long arms and gripping his hip. Harry stumbles and Nick tightens his hold to steady him.

"It'll be nice to walk again," Harry says in his slow voice. Nick quirks an eyebrow, almost laughs out loud.

"You've got a talent for pointing out the obvious, young Harold."

Harry chuckles, hobbling along as well as he can while Nick leads them to the poolside. "I'm not great with words, I guess. My mates tell me all the time. They always give me a hard time about telling 'Harry stories'."

"Maybe they just don't understand your sense of humor. Here, step down carefully."

Harry dips into the pool and settles down on the second step easily. Nick slips in to sit next to him. The water isn't overly cold, and there's quite a bit of noise. The little girl is splashing around, playing in the water now, and her mother and siblings have arrived. Nothing makes noise like a handful of small children. Nick has Harry start off by just bending and straightening his leg. Harry curls his fingers over the edge of the step he's sitting on and gets to it, water lapping at his bellybutton.

"Dr. Geldof came to check on Lou last night," he says.

"Oh yeah? Any news?"

"No, just about you."

Nick sinks further into the water, stretching his legs out like he's in a recliner and resting back on his elbows so the water submerges him to his chest. He tosses Harry a grin. "I'm being promoted?"

Harry snorts. "To what?"

"I've no idea. Universal overlord."

"Does she have the power to do that?"

Nick shrugs. "Probably."

Harry reaches down his leg to touch his knee, tucking two fingers behind to feel the joint move. He's being very cautious, moving his leg quite slowly."She said you guys are like, best friends."

"We are like," Nick agrees. "We met when I moved to London. She lived in the flat above mine for years."

"Where'd you move from? North, obviously."

" _Obviously_ ," Nick repeats, grinning. "Manchester."

"Oh yeah?" says Harry, looking over at him. "Big Man U fan?"

"Could not possibly care any less about football, unfortunately." Nick sighs dramatically. "Where abouts are you from?"

"Cheshire," says Harry. "I've only been in London for two years."

"How d'you like it?"

"It's...big."

Nick stares at him, and then laughs, rather rudely. Harry says, "Oi!" and splashes water at him, and Nick retaliates by flicking water into his face.

"It _is_ big," says Nick. He told little Tommy on the plane just days ago the very same thing. He doesn't blame the boy for mocking him now that he's heard it come out of Harry. It does sound stupid.

"Shut up, you know what I mean," Harry grumbles, but he's still smiling.

Nick shrugs again. "I suppose. Did you meet Louis and Liam here in London?"

Harry shakes his head. He's bending and straightening his leg a bit faster now, more naturally, his eyes on the stark of his scar in the water. "Louis and me and our mate Zayn all grew up together, moved down here after Zayn and I finished college."

"Ah, lifelong friends, then."

"Literally," says Harry. "Louis was there when I was born. It's one of both our mums' favorite stories. His mum is a midwife, so she like, delivered me, or whatever."

"Gross," says Nick. "He was probably scarred for life."

"He wasn't in the delivery room or anything," Harry says, very haughtily, splashing Nick again. Nick wrinkles his nose and wipes the water out of his eyes. Harry prods at him with the toe of his right foot. "Anyway, Dr. Geldof."

"Pix."

"Yeah. She said you just got back from America."

Nick looks at him upside down, and Harry looks down at him, makes a silly face that makes Nick laugh. He sits up straight again. "She talks too much. All right, enough of that. Are you in pain?"

"A little.."

"Good! Stand up then," says Nick. He grips Harry gently by the upper arm and helps him stand, and then wade down the last two steps. The water is only five feet deep. Harry stands flat on his feet, pigeon-toed as hell. Nick settles a hand on his back. "This is the most strenuous thing we'll do for the next few days. Just walking. You need to do it properly, though, put as much weight on your left side as your right."

Harry makes a face. "It feels funny. Like I can feel the screws in it."

"I know it feels funny, that's why you're here. I'll be right at your side, darling, don't worry. I'll catch you if you fall."

Harry makes a face again, wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth in a little snarl. It's quite precious. Nick taps him pointedly on the small of the back under the water, and Harry sighs as though terribly put upon, and complies.

Nick walks with him to the pool. It's not much, about ten steps. Harry's not putting enough weight on his injured knee, though, and whenever he tries he grips at Nick's arm with _purpose_ , like he's punishing Nick for making him do it. Nick doesn't know what Harry expected PT to be like, but he should've known it'd be a bit painful.

"So, America," Harry says after about a minute. He's not breathing heavily, but his teeth are sort of clenched. Nick is making him pull his knee up as high as he can to his chest, and Harry's doing as he's told, so he reckons he can allow the distraction.

"America, yeah. It was good. I was doing an internship."

"At the Mayo Clinic, that's what she said. Prestigious."

"There's no point in not being the best at what you do, Styles," Nick says pompously. Harry rolls his eyes, and then falters when he stumbles, comes down hard on his left foot and his knee buckles a bit. Nick pulls him back up and Harry swears. It sounds fantastic in his deep voice.

"Fuck, just. Tell me something, please? This hurts."

"Baby," says Nick.

" _Screws in my bones_ ," Harry argues.

"All right, all right, keep going, then. Let's see, America was good, but very busy. I didn't see much, really. I just finished unpacking. Oh! I kind of acquired a cat last night."

Harry turns his head to look at him. Nick's a step behind him, watching his posture carefully. "'Acquired a cat'?"

"Yeah, yeah. I was leaving Tesco and it was there, just staring at me. It's completely round. Like a ball." He demonstrates with hand motions. "But with fur and stubby legs."

"Aren't strays supposed to be skinny?" says Harry.

"I've no idea. I hate cats, allergic to them. Been popping allergy pills."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Why'd you get one then?"

"It was, I don't know, it was looking at me, and its fur was all dirty and matted. It was raining. I couldn't very well just _leave_ it there."

Harry's got this look on his face, his eyes bigger than usual, his mouth quirked like he's trying not to laugh. Nick does his best to look entirely unaffected. Harry nudges him with his shoulder. "What'd you name it?"

"Peter Davison."

Harry stares. Nick tilts his head. "You're a weird guy," says Harry. He makes it sound like it's something _wonderful_.

"Yeah," is all Nick can think of to say. He scratches his neck. "I need to find a vet, I suppose. I should do that tonight."

"Oh, hey, my mate Zayn is training to be a vet. He works at an office in Camden now. You should go there."

So far it's the only referral Nick's got at all, so he shrugs. "All right, yeah."

Harry beams at him. Nick makes him do three more laps.

 

 

Nick takes Peter Davison to the vet after work. He doesn't have a cage for it, so it sits in the passenger seat and licks at its paws. It's unbelievably lazy, Nick thinks. It doesn't play with any of the toys Nick bought it last night, when Nick tried to fling a rubber band across the room for it to chase it just looked at him.

"Here we are," he tells it once he's pulled into the veterinary's car park. He takes a spot right in front and picks the cat up, rolling his eyes when it goes limp and pliant, and lugs it inside. His eyes are already watering from its dander, but he hasn't got all blotchy yet, so he thinks his allergy pills might be working. It meows low in its throat as he shifts it around to hold it better.

The waiting room is nearly empty, only one other person and her shaggy-looking sheep dog inside. Nick approaches the desk, where the receptionist, a really pretty kid with jet black hair and ridiculously long eyelashes, hands him a pen and looks at Peter Davison with wide eyes.

"That's the fattest cat I've ever seen," he says.

"Voluptuous," says Nick, a bit defensively. He shifts the cat's dead weight from one arm to the other so he can sign in. He doesn't notice until he's done that the receptionist's nametag says Zayn. Nick smiles and points at him. "Hey, you're Harry's friend."

Zayn only looks puzzled for a second before he grins back. "Yeah, right, you're Nick then? He told me you'd made an appointment. He didn't tell me you'd be bringing in Jabba the Cat, though."

"Hey," Nick protests. His arm is going numb from Peter Davison's weight. Zayn just laughs and reaches out to pet the cat. It butts its head against his hand and purrs.

"Well it's nice to meet you, mate. I'll let the doc know you're here. Shouldn't be too long a wait."

"Cheers," says Nick.

He sits down across from the woman and her sheep dog. It's a bit weird, he decides, the way people start to look like their dogs. The woman's fringe falls over her eyes the exact same way her dog's does, and her face is a bit round like the dog's too. Its tag says "Boomer".

"He's very handsome," Nick says. It's too quiet in the room and he likes to talk. The woman looks at him and smiles politely.

"Thank you."

She doesn't return the compliment about his cat, which makes Nick bristle and hold Peter Davison tighter until it squeaks. He loosens his grip and pats its head apologetically.

The vet is nice-looking man with grey hair and thin-framed glasses, with kind grey eyes. His name is Dr. Edmund. He looks a bit like George Clooney. Nick drops his cat unceremoniously onto the exam table in order to shake his hand.

"I found it yesterday," Nick tells Dr. Edmund. "I gave it a bath because it was all matted, but it's quite furry, you know, down there, so I'm not sure what it is. And it probably needs vaccinations, and things."

Dr. Edmund lifts it up, grunts a bit at the weight (Nick sympathises, the cat is very dense) and tilts his head as he looks at its underside.

"It's male," he says eventually, and sets Peter Davison back on the table. "And he's been neutered. We'll take some blood to make sure he's not got worms or anything and get him all sorted. You may want to consider starting him on diet cat food, also."

"He's very sensitive about his curves," says Nick.

Dr. Edmund laughs.

"You know, I'm almost positive that this is a purebred cat. Someone probably paid a lot of money for him."

"He was filthy and staring at me outside a Tesco," Nick says. "They're welcome to come take him back. It took me three hours to give him a bath last night."

Dr. Edmund hums thoughtfully, and when he's finished prodding at Peter Davison he looks at Nick with a grin. "All right, lets get his vaccines done."

"Sounds good," says Nick.

Peter Davison sprawls out on the table and flicks his tail about regally. Nick sneezes.

On the way out, he runs into Zayn again. Zayn's pulling on his coat, and he offers a casual nod. "Can I stroke him?" he asks, once he's zipped up.

"Be my guest," Nick answers. He holds Peter Davison curled into his chest, and Zayn scratches at the cat's ears and along his sides. Peter Davison seems to love it, purring loudly. Zayn must be one of those animal people. Like The Crocodile Hunter or Snow White. Peter Davison is all but crawling out of Nick's arms to get to him. Nick wonders if he could give him away.

"He's sweet," says Zayn, grinning.

"Don't be fooled," Nick drawls. "I think he just has a crush on Dr. Edmunds."

Zayn snorts and shoulders a satchel that looks packed with books. "I've got to run. Was nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too. I'm sure I'll see you around the hospital."

"On my way there now," Zayn says, his smile a bit rueful now. It's sort of sad and awkward. Nick holds his cat a little tighter.

"Make sure to tell Louis I say hello," he says.

Zayn laughs politely. "'Course, man. I'll see you later."

He side steps Nick, waves goodbye to the receptionist now at the desk, and heads out into the cold. Nick watches him leave, and then pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, balancing Peter Davison precariously with one arm.

 

 

Harry's second appointment is much the same as his first. Nick has him warm up a bit and then walk around in the water. Nick doesn't walk with him this time, lets Harry use the edge of the pool to steady himself. There's a class of old people doing aquatic exercises at the other end. Nick's perched on the edge, letting his feet dangle in the water.

"I'm getting pretty good at this," Harry says. "I mean, I think I could be in the Olympics or summat."

"There's no category for walking in water. Maybe another sport?"

"I'm not really coordinated," Harry answers. "I like football a lot, and I know a lot about it, but I'm awful."

"Worse things to be awful at than sports," Nick says.

"You must talk about them a lot though, being a physical therapist."

Nick shrugs. "I have excellent selective hearing, young Harold. All I really learn is that they're dangerous and possibly debilitating."

Harry grins, and then bends his knees enough to submerge himself completely. He kicks off and swims over, surfaces, tosses his hair out of his face, and pulls himself up very carefully to sit on the side of the pool right next Nick. Water beads down the line of his jaw and his long neck, down over his shoulders and chest. His nipples are hard from the chill, and the drawstring on his swimming trunks has come undone. Nick swallows, skirts his gaze back to Harry's face. Harry wrings his wet curls out into the pool. Nick didn't tell him he could stop with his exercises. He should be annoyed.

"I think I might try and take up boxing, after all this," says Harry.

Nick imagines him in shiny little shorts and nods. "I think you should."

"My mate Niall...I don't know if you've met him. He was here last night but you probably don't randomly wander upstairs, huh?"

"Not unless spoilt patients coerce me into it, no."

Harry sticks out his tongue. If his knee weren't hurt, Nick would shove him in the water. As it is he slides down into it himself and offers Harry an arm to help him back in. If he's going to be talking and smiling and being wet with his swimming trunks molded to his skinny thighs like that, they need to be working before Nick loses his mind. Harry is...well, handsy, and Nick's thrown off guard enough by his whole personality that he's not quite sure how to take it, Harry's big hand sliding down his back as he steadies himself or the way Harry tends to push the errant curl of Nick's out of his face whenever it falls over his forehead.

"Anyway, Niall—he works with me—he's started doing kick boxing. That might be good."

Nick has no interest in kick boxing at all. "You work for a record label, don't you? Sony?"

"Wow, does it have that in my file?" Harry asks.

"Yes, actually," Nick sniffs. He keeps a hand on Harry's back as Harry goes through the motions, because his knee is getting tired now. Nick can tell, because Harry's putting less pressure on it. "Whoever filled out your paperwork did a very thorough job of it."

"My mum," says Harry, cheeks going a bit red. It's very sweet. Nick tries not to react. "But yeah, I'm a sound tech, me an' Niall both."

"Have you met a lot of pop stars, then? If you've ever met Beyonce I'll die of jealousy."

Harry shifts, winds his arm around Nick's back. "Sorry, I wanna keep going but it hurts."

"S'what I'm here for," Nick says. It's true, even. This certainly isn't the first time he's been a human crutch to a patient with a knee injury. Harry's arm is warm through Nick's top, his hand curling around Nick's side. With nowhere else to keep his arm since they're pressed so close together, he drops his hand onto the nape of Harry's neck and helps him walk. It feels nice.

"Anyway, no, I haven't met Beyonce, sorry. Haven't actually _met_ anyone. They call us sound technicians but really we're just like, man servants to the actual sound engineers. They hide us away when the pop stars come in to record. It actually pays quite well though."

"I'm very disappointed that I can't use you as a connection to pop stars, Harry Styles."

Harry shrugs. "You like me perfectly well on my own."  
Nick blinks, can't stop the smile that tugs at his mouth, especially when Harry looks around at him almost nervously, and says, "Right?"

"I suppose I do."

Harry looks so pleased that Nick has to look away.

 

 

He has his old mate from uni, Greg, and Greg's girlfriend Ellie over for dinner on Thursday. It's nothing extravagant, pizza and beer and the telly on in the background, but Nick's known Greg long enough that he doesn't feel the need to stand on ceremony. Greg lets himself in, bearing a six-pack of Stella, and envelopes Nick in a hug. Nick is quite tall. Greg is a giant, and he's warm and familiar and Nick burrows into him a bit, hooking his chin over Greg's shoulder.

"Your hair is a mess," Greg says, but he makes it sound affectionate, and he kisses Nick on the cheek and doesn't pull away until Nick does, so Nick lets it go. Ellie is tiny and beaming, and he hugs her too and kisses her cheek.

"You look gorgeous," he tells her. "Still don't know what you're doing with a man like Greg James."

"Oi," says Greg, with absolutely no heat. He's already on his way to the kitchen, sniffing out the pizza that arrived just before he did.

"It's all right to settle," says Ellie, patting Nick on the stomach. "He's rich."

Nick laughs . "There is always that."

Greg is an investment banker and apparently very good at it, because he makes so much money it's a bit disgusting and difficult to be happy for him, except that he's so nice. He emerges from the kitchen with a piece of pizza shoved in his mouth and another in his hand, a can of beer tucked under his arm.

"Aren't you eating?" he asks, mouth full.

" _Greg,_ " says Ellie, making a face. Nick turns away and pretends to gag. It only makes Greg open his mouth wider. Ellie takes a pillow off Nick's sofa and socks him in the gut with it. "You're so gross! I'm leaving you and I'm taking all your money with me."

Greg finally swallows, and immediately breaks into Kanye, "I ain't sayin' she's a gold digger..." complete with a weird, shuffly dance in his socks across the carpet. When he bumps against a bookshelf, it shocks him so badly that sparks fly and he yelps. Nick laughs until he's nearly crying, and Ellie keeps throwing pillows at Greg until he picks her up and tosses her over his shoulder, patting her bum daintily. She elbows him in the back of the head.

Eventually, they end up sprawled comfortably on Nick's living room floor, the open pizza box on the coffee table and a repeat of Downton Abby on the telly. It's the most comfortable Nick's felt in a long time. Or at least it is until Greg, stretched out on his back with an arm folded under his head, turns to look up at him.

"So you ran off to America, then."

Nick kicks him in the calf, and then tucks his feet up underneath himself on the sofa. "Shut up," he says. And then, lightly, "Have you seen him?"

Greg reaches up with one long arm to squeeze Nick's knee. It's a sympathy Nick's not sure he can handle right now, and Greg must realize that because he pulls back after a moment. He met Chess through Greg, years ago, when they were both just out of uni and fresh faced and sharing a flat their first year in London, when Greg was doing his Master's. Chess was in one of his lectures, and the three of them started hanging out together. He works at Greg's bank, now. It's a stupid question.

"Yeah."

Nick nods, chewing on his thumbnail. "How's he look?"

"The same. He's asked after you."

"Bastard," says Nick, a failed attempt at humor, but Greg snorts anyway. Ellie crawls up onto the sofa next to Nick and leans into his side, comforting. Nick wraps an arm around her.

Nick had hoped that leaving the country and over-working himself at a job he loves would make him feel better about everything, or at the very least force him to get over it and move on faster. But he still has dreams about the night Chess sat him down and told him he wasn't in love with him anymore, and hurt still pulses inside whenever he thinks about him. Part of him wishes that it'd been messy and that Chess had been horrible, that Nick would've walked in on him in bed with whoever the hell it was he met. He wishes Chess had actually cheated on him so that he could be angrier. It'd all be so much easier if Chess was just a huge knob. But he's not, and he never was. He's a good guy and a good person and a good catch, and that sucks.

Ellie squeezes him and changes she subject, bless her.

"How's the hospital? Feel good to be back home?" she asks.

"It's fine. The same. I've got loads of new patients."

"Shouldn't you?" Ellia asks. "You've been gone months!"

"One of them is in a coma."

"Oh, sad!" Ellie says.

"That must be quite difficult to work with," Greg offers. Elle kicks at him. "I'm only saying."

Nick snorts. "His name's Louis. Best patient I've got. Listens very well."

Greg rolls his eyes and Ellie prods him sharply in the stomach, but she's smiling. Nick doesn't know why he brought it up. Talking about his patients isn't something he's supposed to do. He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip. Ellie hums thoughtfully. "I think Pixie's mentioned him. Her text was, and I quote, that he had 'the sexiest batch of internal injuries I've ever seen.'"

"That's Louis," Nick says knowledgeably, like he and Louis are old friends.

"She didn't say by name, or anythin', but I remember her mentioning a patient in a coma. I suppose she probably has a few of those."

"Mm."

He almost tells them about Louis's best friend, about how he's funny and weird and clumsy and sweet. But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything about Harry at all.

 

 

Getting laid in Minnesota was so obscenely easy Nick wants to put it in his memoirs. He's a reasonably good looking guy with a British accent. The most effort he had to put into pulling was slotting himself onto a barstool next to whichever pretty boy caught his attention and drawling, "Hiya, love." He quite literally didn't go more than a few days in a row without sex the entire time he was there.

He's less special in London. He _hates_ being less special. Still, within half an hour at the pub he wandered into, he's chatting up a very cute blond guy called David rather successfully. It's been a long two weeks back at work, between so many new patients, relentless telephone calls from his parents wanting to know when he's coming to visit, and long hours spent drowning his sorrows alone in bottles of wine from Tesco. It's Saturday night. He really shouldn't spend it alone.

"Let me just pop to the loo and we can get out of here, yeah?" says David, smiling prettily. He's sitting very close to Nick in the booth they slid into an hour ago, and he smells like subtle cologne. They've been kissing, a bit, and David's pale mouth is red from it. Nick squeezes his knee gently, heat curling up low in his belly, and nods.

"Sounds great, love."

David gives him a lingering kiss, lips wet and bruised, and Nick watches his arse as he walks through the crowd to get to the loos. His skin is all tingly and his mouth tastes like vodka. He feels more at home here, surrounded by people and flirting shamelessly.

He pulls out his phone while he waits, planning to check his email and fuck around on Twitter, and finds he has a new voicemail. He hadn't heard it ring over the noise. He digs out his headphones from his pocket and pushes one into his ear so he can hear. At the sound of Harry Styles's voice, he freezes.

_"Hey, uh, Nick, it's Harry. Harry Styles? Your like, um, patient. I kind of stole your number. I mean not really, it's on your business card, but I took one of those. I was just ringing to, uh. Well. I think we've become like, friends or whatever, and I'm bored, and was just wondering what you were up to, if you might want to go for coffee or something. Just call me back if you want to? Sorry. Um, bye. Yeah, sorry. Bye."_

Nick's smiling, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth and just staring at his phone. He knows what he _should_ do, knows which way his moral compass points, but he made the wrong decision the second he heard Harry's voice. So when David returns from the loo, looking exceptional, Nick tells him that he was called into work unexpectedly. He kisses the pout from David's lips, apologizes, pulls his coat on and steps outside.

Harry answers on the third ring. "Nick, hello."

Nick toes at the brick wall of the bar, kicks against it lightly. "Hey, Harry, I just got your message."

"Oh, right. Yeah, sorry about that. I didn't mean to like...It's all right, isn't it?"

Nick's mouth is starting to hurt from his grin. He nods even though Harry can't see him. "Yeah, love, 'course. We're friends, aren't we?"

"I reckon we get on too well not to be," says Harry.

"So, you still up for coffee?"

"Oh, yeah. My mate Bressie owns this shop, so I thought we could go there, so we won't have to pay for anything. It's not too far from the hospital."

Nick frowns. "Are you _at_ the hospital?"

"Yeah. I was just visiting Lou. He's not much for conversation tonight though."

Nick rolls his eyes. "You're a riot, you are."

"I know," Harry says loftily. "Anyway, you should come say hi, too, then we can go."

So twenty minutes later, Nick strolls into Louis's hospital room to find Harry sitting on the small couch against the wall, dicking about on his mobile. He stands up carefully with a slow smile, and pulls Nick into a quick hug. It's unexpected and nice, if a bit weird to see Harry in real clothes after a full week of his turtle swimming trunks. Nick lets it last as long as he dares before pulling back and helping Harry sit down again.

"Where's Liam?"

"Working," says Harry. "He's a fireman."

Nick is somehow utterly unsurprised. "And Louis here?" he asks, walking around the side of the bed to peer down at Harry's friend. "What's he do?"

He looks the exact same as he did a week ago, except that his hair has obviously been washed. He's still pale and unconscious and has a tube in his throat.

"He's a teacher."

"Oh yeah? What's he teach?"

Harry grins. "Drama. We'll just say that he excels in it." Nick snickers, reaches down to straighten out Louis's sleeve where the hem has rolled up a bit. He wonders if he'll ever wake up. When Harry speaks again his voice is softer than usual. "When he wakes up, you'll work with him too, yeah?"

"Mm."

"What for? His hip?"

"Yeah. And motor functions, if there's brain damage." Harry makes this soft, choked sound and Nick looks up at once, cursing himself. Harry's staring blank-faced at him, wide-eyed. Nick winces. "Shit, I'm sorry. That sounded cold."

"No, no," Harry forces out. He takes a deep breath and pushes the fingers of both hands through his hair, forces a couple of quiet laughs. "It's not like I didn't know it's a possibility."

"I'm sorry," Nick says again, useless. He wants to tell Harry what he knows, that the swelling in Louis's brain was very temporary, that his scans are coming back relatively clear, that there's definite brain activity and that there's a very good possibility that, if Louis wakes up, he'll be the same person he always has been. But it's not Nick's place to tell him any of that, certainly not to get his hopes up.

"It's okay, really," Harry says. "He's just. Y'know, stubborn. Won't wake up. He's always loved to be the center of attention. He's probably doing it on purpose."

"He's hanging in there," Nick offers weakly. He doesn't really know what to say. Harry's looking a bit lost, now, a bit sad. Nick walks over and drops down onto the sofa next to him, carefully puts his arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry isn't wearing his sling, and he should be, but Nick doesn't have the heart to scold him right now. Harry's quiet and tense, but sort of curls into his side. Nick tugs lightly on his hair. "So he and Liam are married, yeah? A bit young, aren't they?"

Harry snorts, and his smile is sincere. "They've been through a lot. Well, they put each other through a lot, anyway. They _hated_ each other for months when they first met, but you'd never know now. They're soulmates, like, cosmically bonded or something. They eloped two months ago and no one was all that surprised."

"Romantic," says Nick.

" _So_ romantic," Harry agrees, smiling with pink cheeks like it's the most wonderful love story he's ever heard of. "Their mums were furious, though. They're making them do it properly this summer. Actually, mine and Zayn's mums were furious with them too. The three of us sort of grew up with three mothers."

"That's darling," Nick coos, and Harry laughs, shoving at him. Nick ruffles his hair and squeezes him into a bit of a hug, because the closest thing he has to a brother is lying in a coma a few feet away, and that deserves a cuddle. It's easy. Everything with Harry is easy. Nick is charming as hell by nature, makes friends incredibly quickly, but he's not hit it off with anyone in his life quite like he has this boy he met a week ago. "C'mon. We'll get you some hot chocolate at the coffee shop, hm?"

 

 

Bressie, it turns out, is the single most gorgeous specimen of man that Nick has ever laid eyes on. He's forever tall, built like a god, with a dazzling dimpled smile and cropped dark hair and just enough scruff to bring out the cut of his jawline.

"Haz!" he says as soon as they walk in. Harry's on crutches, but he lets them drop and holds out his arms so that Bressie can scoop him up like he weighs nothing and spin him around. Harry is completely pliant, grinning and looking sleepy, like he's totally used to this. In fact, Nick's seen that expression on Peter Davison's face all week, especially when he's done something weird like curled up in Nick's bathroom sink or knocked all of the cereal boxes from Nick's cupboard so he could sleep inside.

"Missed you, man," says Bressie. He's Irish. It makes him even more attractive.

Harry pats him vaguely on the shoulder. "Missed you too." Once Bressie's put him back on his feet, he gestures to Nick. "This is my friend Nick Grimshaw. Nick, this is Niall Breslin."

"Bressie," says Niall Breslin.

"Harry fucking Styles!" shouts a voice before Nick can say anything at all, and a kid with fluffy blond hair and a loose vest walks out of the kitchen behind the counter, looking thrilled. Nick steps aside so as not to get anymore in the way of all the hugging. Niall thumps Harry on the back and smacks a kiss to his cheek before he steps back, hooking two fingers into Bressie's belt loop in a decidedly intimate way.

There's a flurry of introductions after that. This one is Niall Horan, who goes by his first name, and he works with Harry at the studio. Harry told Nick that they're both basically worker minions right now, but they're interested in producing and maybe one day opening their own label together. Niall is also Irish, and has the foulest mouth Nick's ever heard, despite the fact that shop is relatively busy. There's a girl with pink hair at the till, and a few other employees on the floor, and none of the customers seem bothered by all the commotion.

"Niall, this is Nick," Harry says finally.

"Right, right," Niall says, and leans up onto his toes to give Nick a hug. Nick's a bit startled, enough that it pulls a laugh out of him, and he hugs Niall back easily. "You're Hazza's knee guy."

"That's me."

"He just thinks he's all that now. My knee's been busted for _years_ , mate, and I've had _three_ surgeries on it, but you don't see me taking time off work to go and swim around all day."

"You did _exactly that_ after the second one, Nialler," Harry says.

"S'true," Bressie offers. "I was there."

"Fuck you both, you're making shit up. You want a cuppa, Grimmy? You guys should sit. Babe, help Harry sit."

Niall is off behind the counter again before anyone can answer. Bressie looks back at him fondly, and then bends down to pick up Harry's crutches (he has a fantastic arse) and offer Harry his shoulder to lean on. They end up settled at a little two-person table in the corner, Harry with the hot chocolate Nick promised him and Nick with a cup of tea.

"So that's Niall," Nick says mildly, watching Bressie and Niall flirt behind the counter.

"That's Niall," Harry agrees, looking fond. "Niall squared, even."

"Yeah, weird that," Nick says. Two Nialls and a coffee shop. Sounds like a sit-com. "Has Bressie owned this place long? It looks new."

"About a year, I think? He picked a really great location, and they get pretty much every Irish customer in London. He's done well. You see the girl up there, pink hair? That's Perrie, Zayn's girlfriend."

"Your social circle is very incestuous," Nick tells Harry. Harry chokes on his hot chocolate, laughing. Nick raises an eyebrow and passes him a serviette so he can wipe his face. "No reason to inhale your drink, Haz, Jesus."

"No, no. It's just I tell them that at least once a week. I met Niall at work and his best friend is Perrie, whose housemate is our friend Leigh-Anne, who knows Jesy who knows Danielle who was dating Liam, at the time. It's all this big mess."

”So which ones've you snogged, then?" Nick asks immediately, as though asking Harry for the weather. Harry narrows his eyes and Nick sips haughtily at his tea. "Oh, c'mon, surely you've had to jump into that big mess at some point."

"The only one I've snogged is Louis, thanks, and that was just to make Liam jealous. It ended up backfiring horribly, I don't suggest it."

"Noted."

Harry tilts his head, lost in thought. "Well, all right, Jesy and I had a bit of a thing, for a while. A sort of friends with benefits deal, until she met her boyfriend Aiden. I've never been in like, a serious relationship, or whatever. I had girlfriends and boyfriends in college and uni, but it was never anything like, more than sex really."

Nick watches him curiously. Harry's wearing a grey jumper that's a touch too big for him, shows off his collarbones and the long line of his neck, falls over his hands so just the tips of his fingers poke out where they're wrapped around his mug. He's got smudges under his eyes from tiredness.

"No one's struck your fancy?" Nick drawls, stirring at his tea unnecessarily.

Harry ducks his head a bit, so endearing it hurts. "It's not like that. It's just...I don't know. I'm young, I suppose, but I've always run with a bit of an older crowd, and it's hard to get like, people to take me seriously."

"You are an old soul, Harold," Nick tells him, straightening up in an effort to sound more posh.

Harry grins. "My mum tells me that. Mostly I just get on really well with older hipsters who make me laugh."

It's an obvious come on. Nick was wondering, honestly, how long it'd take. Harry's not entirely subtle, and Nick hasn't really been either, but he feels shocked enough that maybe he never really expected for Harry to follow through on it. Nick's nine years older than him, and Harry is his _patient_. The confidence is undeniably attractive. Everything about Harry is undeniably attractive.

"But you can't ever get them to take you seriously," Nick says. Their feet are touching under the table, have been the whole time. Harry's ankle presses into Nick's.

"Turns out I'm more than okay with taking what I can get."

Nick manages to hold his gaze for another few seconds before he makes a show of finishing his tea. His palms feel overly warm, and his body is _aching_ for it. Nick has a definite type, and Harry's Northern sense of humor and big doe eyes and too-big feet and sweet smile fit it to the proverbial T.

But.

Nick nudges Harry's foot with his own, makes a silly face to make Harry laugh, to break the tension. It works. Nick grins wryly. "Finish your hot chocolate, doll. I'll drive you home."

 

 

The next three weeks are all Harry, all the time for Nick. When he's not with him, he's texting him. When he's not texting him, he's thinking about him. When he sleeps, he dreams about him, when he wanks, it's to thoughts of his broad back and tight abs and pert little arse and his giant hands. It's like since Harry's dangled himself enticingly in front of him, Nick can't get the idea out of his head. And the worst of it is that far beyond Harry being so, so hot, Nick _likes_ him. He likes spending time with him, going to films and the occasional concerts, having Harry and Bressie and Niall and sometimes Zayn and Perrie show up to clubs where Nick DJs on the weekend to hang out. Harry's clever and unpredictable and Nick is a giant fucking moth to his flame. And then of course there's the fact that, now that Harry is out of the pool and working his knee on dry land, it is quite literally Nick's job to _massage his thigh_.

Nick hasn't had sex in weeks. He's spent the majority of his free time upstairs at the hospital in Louis's room, where Harry spends at least a few hours a day and, sometimes, when Nick just goes to keep Liam company or check on the progress of Louis's hip. He's obsessing over a twenty-three year old who's turning his world upside down. He's strung so tight he knows he's going to _snap_.

It happens on a Wednesday evening. Louis's mum is in London. Apparently she's got four little girls to raise on her own back up north, and it's only a few days here and there that she can spare to visit her son. She went to breakfast with Harry this morning, so Harry's appointment with Nick was rescheduled to this evening. It was Nick's last of the day, and they're planning on grabbing something for dinner after. Nick's just finished showering and gathering his things when there's a crash from the patient changing room, and loud, pained swearing that is obviously Harry.

Nick's heart drops like a rock. He rushes inside, looking around a bit frantically. The changing room is huge, with four sets of six shower stalls and thirty or so toilet stalls. The walls are lined with lockers. Nick's only been in here a handful of times. "Hazza?"

"Here," Harry grunts, from somewhere nearby. Nick walks around a thick cement wall into the first set of shower stalls. Harry's on the floor next to a broken towel bar, soaked and clutching at his injured leg just below the knee. He's ghost pale and biting his lip so hard that it's turned white. He's got a towel tossed haphazardly over his groin, at least. Nick crouches down next to him and Harry leans against him gratefully.

"I'm posting pictures of this to the hospital's Twitter."

Harry laughs like it's shocked out of him, and shoulders into Nick's chest. He's shivering a bit. "Fuck, _fuck_ that hurt."

Nick likes the way he says 'fuck'. He pries Harry's hand away from his knee and prods very carefully at it. Harry hisses, but Nick thinks it's probably just on principle.

"What happened?"

"Was usin' that bar to hold myself up while I dried off. Apparently I don't know my own strength."

"Hulk smash?"

"Tch. Yeah."

Nick rubs his palm over the curve of Harry's knee, doesn't fight it when Harry swears again and clutches at the front of Nick's t-shirt so he has something to squeeze. "Did you hit it?"

"No, just kind of twisted it funny."

Nick feels around a bit more, checking the cap and then around back to better feel the joint. He hardly realizes that he's massaging the nape of Harry's neck with his other hand. "I think you just jarred it, love. Still hurt?"

"Not bad." Harry's voice sounds breathy, hot, and when Nick looks down Harry's turned his head and is nosing along Nick's collarbone, his eyes closed. Nick's fingers are threading into Harry's hair at the base of his skull, and it's suddenly so thick with tension that it's difficult to breathe.

"Haz," Nick murmurs. He means for it to sound scolding. Instead it comes out a bit needy. Harry pulls in a shuddering breath and looks up at him with dark eyes.

"I. Nick, I fucking. I want you. I can't stop. I can't stop thinking about you. I just. I'm--"

Nick kisses him. His mouth is wet from the shower and his skin slick and the angle is off, so Nick shifts them around until he's between Harry's spread legs and can snare his mouth properly. Harry gives this weak, hot little moan and fists his hands into Nick's hair and Nick licks past the seam of Harry's lips and into his mouth. Harry opens right up for him, draws Nick's tongue in with soft suction and so much heat. Nick tongues the ridges of the roof of his mouth and slides his palms down Harry's back, feels muscle shift as Harry moves, as Nick eases him down until he's lying back on his elbows and Nick's hovering over him. Harry's hard under the towel, and Christ, must be hung like a horse. Nick's head is fuzzy and Harry's mouth is soft and it's so, _so_ good.

"Jesus," Nick breathes, drawing back just enough to rest their foreheads together, to let them breathe. His heart is racing, and he can't stop his hands, down at Harry's bare hips now, one thumb rubbing circles just inside the bone and the other teasing at the towel below his navel. Harry makes a quiet noise and presses his mouth to Nick's neck, his throat, tongues at his Adam's apple. "Jesus," Nick says again. "We can't. We ca—"

" _Nick_ ," Harry whines. It makes Nick laugh.

"We can't do this _here_."

"Back at yours?" Harry says at once. His mouth is red, a bit swollen. Nick cups his cheek and thumbs over his bottom lip, moans helplessly when Harry pulls it into his mouth and bites down.

"Yeah. Yeah, at mine."

 

 

This isn't a good idea.

Nick thinks it the entire time that Harry is getting dressed, which takes much longer than it should because Nick keeps distracting him, scrubbing a towel over his back to catch the water dripping from Harry's curls and touching his mouth to Harry's shoulder and neck and jaw.

He thinks it when he's got Harry tucked into his side, helping him walk, steps slow and steady with the cane Harry's graduated to using instead of crutches. He thinks it the entire cab ride to his house, with Harry's legs thrown over his lap and Harry's mouth on his, slender fingers pushing up under Nick's shirt, pressing hot and firm against his sternum. He thinks it as he's over-tipping the cabbie and tugging at Harry's belt loop, as they stumble together into his building, laughing, kissing.

This isn't a good idea.

He tells Harry as much once they're inside, and the door is closed, and Harry's arm is curled around his shoulders and his mouth is on Nick's neck.

"It's such a good idea," Harry tells him, lips hot and wet on Nick's jaw, at the sensitive skin just in front of his ear. "Best idea ever."

"God, yeah," Nick agrees, and then frowns at himself. That's not what he meant to say. He twists his fingers into Harry's curls and tongues into his mouth.

They leave a trail of clothes through the flat. Nick stops them, both in just their pants, in the hallways just outside his bedroom so he can crowd Harry against the wall and slide his hand into the back of Harry's boxer-briefs. He digs his fingers into the soft of Harry's arse and squeezes, then lets his fingertips trace along the cleft. Harry jerks, mouth in a surprised little o, but doesn't have anywhere to go but forward into Nick.

"Thought this was a bad idea?" Harry says, voice thick, a smirk on his sweet face. Nick pulls him closer, chests together. Harry's solid and so warm, hands splayed over Nick's back. Nick slides his fingers into Harry's hair and kisses him again.

"I've committed to it now," Nick says, muffled by Harry's pink bottom lip caught between his teeth. "An' when I commit to something, I do it right."

Harry's laughter is breathy, and he's hard, dick fat and long against Nick's pelvis through their pants. Nick tucks one finger into the cleft of Harry's arse, grazes the tip over his hole. Harry tenses up momentarily and then goes all pliant, like he's relieved, sagging against Nick and mouthing at his neck. His hand gropes at Nick's chest and stomach, down to cup Nick's erection through his briefs. Nick tugs on his hair to get him to lift his head. Harry's really turned on, eyes glazed with it. His tongue wets his lips. Nick frees his hand from Harry's underwear and frames his hips between his palms. He pushes his dick into Harry's hand, leans in to tongue at the shell of Harry's ear. Harry's breath is hot on the side of his face.

"Want you," Nick murmurs. Harry's hands skitter up Nick's sides, clumsy with need. His fingers curl around the tops of Nick's shoulders. Nick touches a kiss to the soft skin just in front of Harry's ear. "Want to fuck you."

Harry wets his lips again and shoves his groin into Nick's, hips rolling. "Yeah, yeah," he whispers. His head tilts back and hits the wall with a quiet thump. "Please, yeah."

Nick chuckles, his voice a little raspy. "So polite, Mr. Styles."

Harry nips at his jaw. "I'm a very. Good. Boy."

It's sort of filthy. Nick clenches his hands around Harry's hips. "Jesus," he breathes, and pulls back to grip Harry's wrists in his hands. "C'mon, kitten, I've got something to show you 'round the bed."

They're laughing when they stumble into Nick's bedroom, legs getting tangled together until Harry's knees hit the edge of the bed and they tumble onto the mattress. Nick doesn't waste time. Harry's already sweating a little bit, his dick so hard in his pants the tip is pushing up past the waistband. Nick pins Harry's wrists down on the pillow above his head, and takes just a second to glance at the pleased, lust-blown look in Harry's eyes before he lowers his mouth to warm skin.

A moan rumbles its way out of Harry's chest when Nick closes his teeth around the nub of his nipple, and he arches his chest up when Nick pinches the other one between two fingers. Nick palms down the long line of his inner arm as he mouths lower, leaving a trail of wet kisses down Harry's chest and sternum, down the line of scar tissue from where the seatbelt cut into him in the crash. It must be sensitive, because Harry hiccups and jerks a little, his knees bending and his legs opening up to cradle Nick's body. Nick suckles a bruise into the hollow of one sharp hipbone, and lets his fingers graze down the insides of Harry's thighs, back up to push under the legs of his boxer-briefs. Harry drops one of his hands to Nick's head, fingers at his hair. Nick opens his mouth over the huge swell of Harry's cock through his pants, right near the base, and Harry makes a soft sound in his throat and hitches his hips up, needy.

"Nick, uhn, you can't tease, mate," he says breathily. His voice is even lower now, a bit raspy. Nick chuckles and lifts himself up onto his knees. He cups his hands over the inside of Harry's knees and palms down the length of his lovely thighs, curls his fingers into the waistband.

"Legs, love."

Harry's still got one arm stretched up over his head, the other resting on his belly. He's red all the way down to his chest, his hair still wet from the shower at the hospital, sweat keeping the strands at his hairline damp. Nick leans over him to dig his fingers into the dark hair under Harry's arm and Harry jerks, a giggle startled out of him, ticklish. He pulls his legs up.

"You too," he says. "Wanna see you. S'only fair."

Nick rolls his eyes. "You first."

He peels Harry's boxer-briefs off him, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight of Harry's dick, so long and pink, the head red and wet. He drops Harry's underwear off the side of the bed and cups his hands underneath his knees, turns his head to kiss the side of the left one, over the thick surgical scar.

"Beautiful, darling."

Harry ducks his head, smiling. "Now you."

Nick lets Harry's legs drop back to the bed and takes his own pants off without ceremony. He feels himself blush a little at the way Harry looks at him, intense and hungry like Nick's being served to him on a silver platter. Nick's dick is stiff, curved up toward his stomach.

"God, Nick, I want--"

"Sh," Nick soothes. He coaxes Harry to spread his legs and folds himself over his lap. Harry opens himself right up, thighs open wide, and he tilts his forehead against his elbow and looks down with heavy-lidded eyes while Nick kisses at his hipbones, the v of muscle between them. Nick cups Harry's balls, heavy and full in his hand, and Harry groans hotly and reaches for his cock. Nick bats his hand out of the way.

"Nah-ah," he scolds. He wraps his free hand around the base of Harry's pretty cock, precome pearls at the head, a little blurt of it smearing out down the side. Nick tastes it, just a touch of his tongue, feels the way it gets his mouth all thick and slippery inside. Harry pulls in a slow, shuddering breath and on the exhale Nick takes him in his mouth.

Harry's hand finds Nick's hair again, and his legs come up to frame Nick's shoulders. Nick tongues at the slit, feels the way Harry's dick stretches out his mouth. Harry's breathing heavy. He takes him deep into his mouth, back into his throat, squeezes at his balls and swallows around him so that Harry jerks and gasps, back arching, eyes rolling back with pleasure. It's hot. He's _so hot_. Nick gets him really wet, swallows back as much precome as he can. He presses his fingers into Harry's perineum just to feel him shiver.

"Nick, Jesus, Nick, your mouth," Harry babbles. Nick would grin if he could, pleased with himself. He slides his mouth back up to the head, tongues at the thick vein on the underside. He laps at the tip one more time and then pulls off.

Harry makes a startled sound and lifts his head, looking bereft. Nick laughs, fond, and smacks a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

"Flip over," Nick tells him. His throat sort of aches. Harry looks curious, but does as he's told, squirming over onto his belly immediately. Nick pats him on his pretty arse a couple of times pointedly, smirks when it makes Harry moan and roll his hips into the bed. "Up on your knees, shoulders down."

Harry grumbles incoherently into the pillow, his hands clutching at the duvet. He tucks his knees under him and opens his legs a bit, arse on display. Nick takes a second to fish a condom and lube out of the bedside table. He drops them on the bed next to him and scoots back, cupping Harry's arse in both hands. The sound that comes out of his mouth when he feels Nick's breath on him is obscene, makes Nick's dick twitch sympathetically. Nick kisses the small of his back, the dimples at the base of his spine. He noses at the cleft.

"God, Nick," Harry moans, trying to spread his legs wider, eager for it. "Nick, Nick, are you gonna--What're you--"

"Your knee all right?" Nick asks him.

"Fuck, yeah," Harry answers. His voice breaks. Nick spreads his cheeks apart.

"Good," he mumbles, and presses a kiss to the tight pucker of his hole. Harry _keens_ , body jerking hard, like he's startled. Nick licks around the rim, down to his balls and back up. He flattens his tongue out, getting the edge good and wet, sloppy.

"You can touch yourself," he tells Harry. Harry whimpers into his pillow and, like he was waiting for permission, his hand flies to his dick. Nick wishes he could see, because it sounds so good. Harry must be really into it, because Nick can hear the sound of him wanking himself slick and wet. He lifts his head just to see the rise and fall of Harry's shoulder blade, and then dives right back in.

Harry writhes for him, breathing in sharp, gasping little sobs, rocking back against Nick's face. Nick stiffens his tongue up and pushes it inside and Harry swears, jerking himself faster. He's so responsive, so eager for it, and so _loud_ , moaning and babbling and gasping into the pillow. Nick fucks him with his tongue, licks into him, forces Harry's tight little hole to stretch around him. It's messy and wet, dripping down so his balls are shiny with spit.

"Nick, I'm gonna, God I'm so, uhn, I'm so close," Harry warns, his voice tight and thick.

Nick can tell, can feel the way he's clenching around his tongue. He digs in as deep as he can, and just as he presses in with a dry finger Harry goes tense and loses it. He shoots off all over his hand and the bed, shuddery dry sobs spilling past his lips. Nick curls his fingers to find his prostate and Harry's entire body jerks when he does. He's riding back against Nick's tongue and finger, forward into his hand. Nick reaches underneath him to close his hand over Harry's still around his cock, guides him to keep fisting, tight over the head, wringing him out until Harry's trembling and making a soft, bruised sound in his throat, over-sensitive.

Nick pulls back then, gently eases his finger out. He kisses Harry's arse cheeks and up over his back again, rubs his hands up and down Harry's sides to soothe him. When he sits back on his knees, Harry collapses onto his side, and then rolls over onto his back, sprawling like a starfish. Nick grins smugly down at him, lowering himself down over him. Harry's arms loop around his neck. He looks blissed out, breathing hard, mouth red where he's bitten his lips.

"Kiss me," he demands, and Nick obliges. Harry coaxes his tongue in immediately, suckles at it like it's Nick's cock. They kiss lazily, wet and soft, and Harry settles a hand on Nick's arse to guide him down to rock his dick against his thigh. It feels good, soft friction, and it helps ease the pressure a little bit. Nick pulls his head back to bite his lip, resting his forehead on Harry's shoulder.

"That was awesome," Harry says.

Nick laughs. "Glad you liked it."

Harry hums an agreement, stretching, and then tugs Nick's head up with a hand in his hair and gives him an expectant look. "But you're still gonna fuck me, right?"

"Yeah," Nick says. His voice is rough, his throat feels tight with how badly he wants this kid sprawled out long and so hot underneath him. He kisses Harry's shoulder and picks himself up again, sitting back on his heels. His cock is wet, so stiff. Harry opens his legs up around him and sits up too, reaching for the condom while Nick uncaps the lube and slicks his fingers.

"Just a little bit, yeah?" Harry asks. He looks wide-eyed, his cock already hardening up again. On their third week in Harry's physical therapy, he'd mentioned taking some sort of sexual yoga class, all about centering the mind to control the body, supposedly to help maintain stamina. Nick wonders if it really worked, or if Harry's still just young enough that this happens. Nick palms his dick without thinking about it and Harry hisses, sensitive. Nick's hand is slick with lube, but Harry's is dry save for sweat when he grips Nick's cock. Nick gasps out a breath, letting his eyes close for a moment. Harry leans in and mouths at his chest and collarbone while he rolls the condom down over Nick's dick. Nick forces his eyes open when Harry's fingers touch his face. "I like to really feel it."

Shit.

Nick snares his mouth in a filthy, wet kiss and uses his body weight to lower Harry back down. He straddles one of Harry's legs and bites at his bottom lip, tugging, and fits his hand between Harry's legs.

Harry takes the first finger right in, relaxed and ready like he was waiting for it. He mouths at Nick's neck and jaw, cups the back of Nick's neck in one hand and rolls his hips into it. Nick presses another in without ceremony. Harry's so tight, and he groans at the stretch. Nick crooks his fingers to press against his prostate, grins against Harry's temple when Harry lets out a little groan. He bends his knee, his thigh rubbing up against Nick's groin. Nick sucks in a breath and adds another finger.

"Okay," Harry gasps, clawing at Nick's shoulders and back. They're both slick with sweat, rutting into each other. Harry's feet are flat on the bed for leverage to ride Nick's fingers and Nick's toes are curling with how good it feels. "Okay, enough."

Nick couldn't wait any longer if he wanted to. He pulls his fingers out, swallows the unhappy sound Harry makes at the loss, and quickly slicks up his cock. He feels out of his head with want, his entire body throbbing. Harry's underneath him, looking overwhelmed and a little nervous, a little vulnerable. It's really hot. Nick pulls Harry in by the legs, until his arse is on Nick's thighs and Nick can snub the tip of his dick against his hole.

"Oh," Harry says, clenching the duvet in his hands. His cock is all stiffened up again, slick tip on his belly. Nick ruts against him just like that for a few seconds, because it feels so good just riding the cleft, tip catching on Harry's hole again and again, opening it up a little wider each time. Harry whines and digs his heel into Nick's calf. " _Nick_."

"Thought you were s'posed to be a good boy," Nick says cheekily. Harry just scrunches his face up and digs his heel in again.

"C'mon, Nick, fuck me, want it, want to feel you in--" He cuts off into a long, drawn out _oh_ when Nick finally pushes into him. Harry tenses up, so impossibly tight around the head of Nick's cock that Nick winces. He rubs soothingly at Harry's lower abdomen and fucks in a little deeper.

"Fuck," Harry groans, "Fuck, fuck, you feel..."

He trails off, but Nick gets the idea. Harry's so hot inside, slick from lube, opening up around him. Nick watches his cock sink in, watches Harry's hole stretch around him, pulling him in. Nick grips his hips and ruts into him, pulls back a little and pushes back in twice until his balls are pressed to Harry's arse and he's buried in deep. Harry hiccups a sound like it's been punched out of him. He's flushed and his eyes are closed, face screwed up from how good he's feeling. He's clamped down tight around Nick's cock.

He feels incredible. Nick grips his thighs hard enough to leave bruises, and pulls back again, fucks back in hard. Harry's head falls back and his mouth drops open. Nick leans over him to kiss his slack mouth, touch their tongues together. Harry's arms wind around him and he his nails dig into Nick's back, his legs curling around Nick's hips.

"You feel really good inside me," Harry murmurs, all hot and honest, temple to Nick's jaw, legs flexing to pull Nick in again. Nick slides his hands up Harry's body, thumbs over his nipples, finding a rhythm as Harry relaxes around him and that tight pressure isn't so unbearable anymore. Harry's loud, mouthy, moaning and hitching breaths when Nick finds the right angle. He scratches down Nick's back and grips Nick's arse to pull him in harder, teeth sinking into Nick's shoulder as he shudders. His cock is caught between them, sliding easily through the sweat and precome on both their bellies. Nick wraps his hand around it and thumbs over the head.

It's easy to get lost in it, in Harry's heavy breaths and the way Nick's name sounds in his fucked out voice, all tight and low and needy. Nick licks into his mouth, bites at his lips, marks up his neck until all he can do is breathe hot and open-mouthed, forehead to Harry's jaw, watching Harry's cock fuck up through his fist with every one of Nick's thrusts. He's bodily moving Harry further up the bed with each shove of his hips, chasing that good feeling that's winding up so tight inside him. Harry's cock jerks in his hand, throbs up so big and hot. He cries out when he comes this time, the sound bruised like it feels so good it hurts. He goes impossibly tight around Nick inside him and Nick drives into him hard, deep. Harry's legs slide free of Nick's back and Nick pins him into the bed, so close, heart in his throat. He loses his rhythm, goes erratic and rough but Harry seems to love it. He's scratching at Nick's back and teething at Nick's ear, whispering hot and filthy.

"C'mon, Nick, can feel how close you are babe, yeah? C'mon, fill me up with it, come inside me."

Nick shoots off _hard_ , breath caught up in his throat, teeth clamping down on Harry's neck so that Harry groans weakly. It's so slick between their stomachs, Harry's softening cock rubbing between them messily, and Nick rides through it, feels the condom fill up hot and wet around him, feels Harry clench up tight to milk him through.

He feels a little gutted in the aftermath, and deeply satisfied. Harry's splayed underneath him, rubbing his back with lazy sweeps of his palm. Nick rests against him, catching his breath for a long time. He's pliant when Harry rolls them so he's in Nick's lap. He tugs Nick up, not letting him slip out yet. Nick feels worn out and over-sensitive, dick throbbing weakly in Harry's arse. Harry cups his cheeks and kisses him, lips pulled into a little smile. Nick opens his mouth to it, lets him in, smoothing his hands up and down Harry's back.

They come down together, kissing lazily for a while and then just resting against each other, sweat cooling on their skin. After a while, Harry slides off Nick's lap and reclines against the pillows, legs sprawled wide. Nick nuzzles under his jaw and grazes his teeth along the hinge. Harry's hands are big and warm on his back, fingertips sliding through sweat, and his mouth is wet and very pink. Nick rests his forehead against Harry's cheek and makes a face as he gets rid of the condom, drops it into the bin under the nightstand. Harry's fingers dig into the gaps of his ribs.

"Oh, hey, is that your cat?"

Nick frowns, because it's a silly thing to hear in Harry's fucked-out voice, slow and raspy, and it takes Nick a moment to realize what he's been asked. By then Harry is shoving him gently out of the way. Nick drops onto his side with a grumble and turns his head to glare balefully at Peter Davison, now perched on the foot of the bed looking superior.

"That's him," he answers, wrinkling his nose. Harry clambers over gracelessly on his hands and knees. It both upsets the cat's balance and obscenely displays Harry's arse, so Nick doesn't complain. Harry tucks his legs underneath himself and scratches Peter Davison between the ears. Peter Davison doesn't react at all beyond staring up at Harry as though removing his soul. Nick groans. "Ugh, he's probably been watching us."

"He's really cute," says Harry. "And round. Like a basketball."

"He's on diet food!" Nick argues, disgruntled.

Harry hums and then prods the cat a bit sharply in the side. Peter Davison flicks his tail. Nick sneezes.

"He doesn't make any noise," Harry says, looking over his shoulder at Nick. His curls are a wreck and his cheeks are still flushed. He looks freshly fucked and lanky and impossibly hot, red in the chest and neck and underneath his weird tattoos. Nick's entire body is still throbbing. He rolls his head along the pillow.

"Yeah, he doesn't, much."

"Like the baby Jesus," says Harry. He nods knowledgably at what Nick can only assume is the deeply incredulous look on his face. "You know, like how he didn't cry when he was born."

"I find you whimsical," Nick replies. 

Harry grins. He hauls the cat up into his arms with a grunt, where Peter Davison lies still and pliant, folded in half over Harry's crossed forearms, and then scoots back on his knees and tumbles backwards into Nick's side. Peter Davison lets out a little _merf_ when he's squeezed too tightly. Nick wrinkles his nose, feels his eyes watering the way they always do since he brought the beast into his home. Harry plops him down on Nick's stomach and curls into his side, petting Peter Davison lovingly. Peter Davison shoves his paw into Nick's spleen.

"Do you have any pets, Harold?" Nick asks.

"A cat back home," Harry murmurs. He sounds sleepy. Nick winds an arm beneath him in order to curl his hand around to touch Harry's hair, winding a swooping curl around one finger. Harry's head turns, his mouth finding Nick's shoulder. "You have freckles all over."

Nick snorts and closes his eyes. He feels light headed, thinks it's probably the fifteen ton cat now lying on his lungs. The first time he slept with Chess, Chess had spent hours going on about Nick's freckles, tonguing the ones on his collarbone, lovingly grazing over the ones on his cheeks with his lips. Chess smiled like Nick was the sun. Chess always made Nick feel invincible.

"I like that your cat is as weird as you are," Harry says, half asleep. Before Nick can answer he yawns hugely and shuffles his body to lie down properly, dropping his head onto the pillow so his curls splash over it. "Can I stay here tonight?"

Nick lets out a rough, surprised chuckle. Harry's not wearing cologne, smells just like soap and sweat and sex. Nick shoves Peter Davison off his chest, rubs at his watery eyes and thinks vaguely of popping another allergy tablet. Peter Davison shakes his arse in the air and then jumps off the edge of the bed. Nick watches him slink out of the room with his belly dragging on the floor.

"Yeah," he says.

Harry's big hand finds his stomach and rubs in a slow circle. "Night, Nick."

Nick stays still, Harry's breath on his shoulder, his legs tangled with Nick's, his hand curled under his chin. Nick watches his eyelashes squinch against his cheeks. "'Night, Styles."

 

Nick wakes up to blinding sunlight right in his eyes and a boy in his bed.

Harry's just barely awake, sprawled out on his stomach, back bare with the duvet down at their waists and his curls mussed and pooled all over the pillow and over his forehead and cheek. He's blinking sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes at Nick, mouth pulling into a slow smile that Nick can't help but return. He lifts a hand and strokes his palm lazily down Harry's back. Harry hums, shuffling a bit closer.

"Was dreamin' that I was at a circus, and I was tryin' to win a turtle for Liam—Liam likes turtles—and you kept giving me money to play this game trying to knock milk bottles over, even though I was hopeless at it," Harry murmurs. His voice is sleep thick, sexier than it has any right to be. Nick winds one loose curl at Harry's temple around his finger and tugs.

"So that's it, now we've slept together I'm your sugar daddy?"

Harry grins and hefts himself up onto his long arms, back arching as he stretches. Nick's doesn't know why he's moving at all, and he grumbles unhappily when Harry starts to shove at him, but he rolls obligingly onto his back. Throws his good leg over Nick and settles himself with a knee on either side of Nick's hips. Nick slides his palms up Harry's thighs, brushes knuckles over Harry's morning wood just to hear the little breath that catches in his throat, and Harry starts to finger idly at Nick's chest hair, leaning down to kiss him.

It doesn't taste great, but it feels good. Harry's mouth is warm and his lips chapped. Nick pulls the bottom one between his own, tongues at the swell of it and bites down just enough to make Harry moan. He frames Harry's hips with his hands and presses into the meat of his arse with his fingers. Harry feels good, looks good. Everything about him makes Nick's head spin, makes his chest ache. He tilts his head back as Harry mouths down the line of his jaw, over his neck. His hands are tangled up in Nick's hair, fingers rubbing at his scalp and then tugging just enough for Nick to feel the pull. It seems as good a time as any to start an argument.

"You're nine years younger than me," Nick says, rolling his hips up for friction. He's hard and Harry's arse is right at his crotch and just the memory of fucking into Harry last night has him a little impatient. Harry laughs against his skin breathily.

"That doesn't bother you as much as you want it to," he argues.

Nick pinches his arse, but he just seems to like that, rolling his hips down again until Nick swears and tugs on his hair to pull him up for another kiss. 

"You're my patient," he tries next, bites it into his earlobe, rolling them so he's got Harry spread out underneath him. Nick sheets are dark green. Harry looks fucking gorgeous pressed into them. He palms up Nick's sides and opens his legs and Nick feeds him his index and middle finger, ruts again his inner thigh and laps over a peaked nipple while Harry gets them wet. He's still open from last night, just closes his eyes and bites his lip on a moan when Nick presses two spit-slick fingers inside him.

"I like that—shit, Nick, just—I like that you're trying to t-talk yourself out of this while—"

Nick kisses him to shut him up. He wants to be furious with himself for letting last night happen. He wants to be more professional and more profound and generally just _more_ than he is. Harry's so hot inside, opens up for him so easy. Nick licks into his mouth and it's sloppy and wet and filthy and Harry's riding his fingers and digging crescent moons with his fingernails into Nick's back. Nick breaks the kiss to pant roughly against Harry's neck, curl his fingers in to rub over his prostate so Harry stutters out a little moan and rubs his cock up needily against Nick's stomach.

Harry rolls them again and Nick lets him, sits up this time so he can kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, get a hand around them both, his fingers pressing at Harry's loose hole but not pushing in again. Harry threads his fingers into his hair and breaks away, his cheeks a hectic red and his mouth wet and bruised, eyes heavy-lidded. He wets his lips and twists away to rifle through Nick's bedside drawer for lube and another condom. Nick rubs at his back, feels the shift of muscle as he moves, wraps his free hand around Harry's dick and thumbs the head, looks down. Harry's dick is huge. He might be the first person Nick's ever met that he's not found something to complain about.

And the thing is that beyond the sex, as Harry gloves him up and slicks him and sinks down onto him with his head tilted forward and his pretty red mouth open, is that Nick might like him.

Nick might like him a lot.

After, Harry sprawled over him and Nick smearing his hands through the sweat on Harry's back, Harry lifts his head and says, "I think we fit quite well."

Nick laughs helplessly, squeezing him closer, digging his fingers into his side to make him squirm because he's ticklish. Harry smiles his slow, sweet smile and Nick cups his cheek so he can touch his thumb to it.

"I think you're giving us an awful lot of credit," he drawls.

Harry raises an eyebrow, says, "I have faith," and then kisses the tip of Nick's nose.

He doesn't make Nick promise anything, and when their hands twine together on their way to a café down the street for breakfast and hour later, Nick fits his fingers into the gaps between Harry's knuckles and lets himself have this.

 

 

"So you're dicking the Styles boy, then!"

Nick almost snorts hot coffee. It's a close enough call that his nasal passage burns and what little he got into his mouth went down his windpipe. He falls into an eye-watering coughing fit and glares at Pixie balefully. At least she had the decency to close his office door first. She perches herself on the edge of his desk and waits, politely, until he can speak again.

"How did you _know?_ " It has literally been three days. He's only been at work for ten minutes. His appointment with Harry isn't even due to start for another fifty.

She smiles. "You know, when I met him, I mean properly, after Louis's surgery and his own and after the shock had worn off him a bit, I thought, 'Hey, you know who would get on really well with this one? Nick.'"

"You did not."

"I did! I even told Aimee. He's just so _weird_ , and a mess of contradictions. I knew that would appeal to you."

"Fuck off," Nick grumbles.

"Anyway, I knew because neither of you are very subtle, and he let slip that he went to Eloise's for breakfast _with a friend_ Saturday morning."

Nick throws a paper clip at her. It sticks in her hair and she sighs and goes about untangling it. Nick tries his best to appear unruffled. "Yes, well. When did you speak to him?"

"Just now, I was checking on Louis 'cause he running a bit of a temperature."

Nick frowns. "Bad sign?"

"I don't think so. Internal stitches are dissolving, think he's just reacting to that. Poor Liam, though. Last time Louis had a temperature he was suffering from sepsis and his chances of survival were rather slim. I thought he was going to faint. I tried to reassure him."

"Hazza says he's not very good at sitting still. Might be for the best he's been unconscious for a while."

" _Hazza_ ," Pixie mocks. Nick lobs another paperclip at her. She manages to duck out of the way this time. "I'm not making fun of you! I think it's wonderful. He's darling, and Gillian says he makes you laugh. We couldn't even get you to _smile_ before you left."

Nick rolls his eyes, because she's being melodramatic. "He's a good friend."

She beams at him, and he throws paperclips at her until she leaves.

 

 

Louis's wearing a t-shirt over his hospital gown. Inexplicably. It's is plain white with multi-colored handprints all over it. One of the red ones says _Lottie_ , and the purple says _Daisy_. _Phoebe_ is scrawled across the pink and _Fizzy_ on the blue. Nick, moving Louis's left arm in a slow circle at the shoulder, tilts his head and ducks down to see what the blotch of green on the side of his t-shirt is, finds a crudely drawn plaster with a smiley face and the words _'Get Better Soon'_ marked underneath it in neat bubbly lettering.

"You're going to hurt you back if you keep standing like that."

Nick glances toward the door with an affronted look on his face, body bent so he's mostly looking at Liam upside down. Liam's in normal clothes instead of his work uniform, a pair of jeans and a soft-looking blue jumper. His hair is neatly gelled and he's got a bit more color in his face than he usually does when Nick steps in every day. He must've been bullied into going home for a change. Nick wrinkles his nose at him.

"Are you implying that I'm old, Mr. Payne?"

He straightens up, trying not to wince when his back twinges. Liam strolls over to settle into his usual rolling chair at Louis's bedside. Nick eases Louis's arm back onto the mattress.

"I would never," Liam says. He's very articulate when he speaks. It's a bit of a shock after spending time with Harry. Nick jots down the time and date and the exercises completed on Louis's file for the day, and watches over the edge of the page as Liam circles one of Louis's dainty wrists between thumb and index finger.

"I was trying to read his top," Nick says, just to break the silence. He tucks his biro into his pocket and flips Louis's chart closed, settles it back into place in the holster attached to the bed. Liam's face breaks out in a weak smile. It's like watching an old dying dog, just looking at him, and it's such a sad thought that Nick wants to make promises he can't keep.

"His sisters made it for him," Liam explains.

"I gathered. He's got like fifteen of them, yeah?"

Liam snorts. "Four. They were here yesterday for a visit. The twins insisted on him wearing it straight away."

"Sweet," says Nick. It sounds insincere but Nick's never been a fantastic actor. Liam's not paying much attention, anyway. He's staring unseeing into space, looking seconds away from collapse. Nick clears his throat loudly to get his attention. "We should get coffee."

Liam's eyebrow draw together and he looks terribly worried. "But..."

"I'm not asking you on a date, Liam."

"I know," says Liam, but he looks relieved. Nick would pinch his cheeks if he could reach that far.

"We'll go to the Nialls's. _Blizzards_ , or whatever it is."

"Aren't you working?"

Nick pats Louis's arm. "I save Louis here for last. He's my best patient."

Liam actually smiles. He's very good looking. "You will probably regret saying that once he's woke up."

"That's exactly what Harry said." Nick looks at Louis, small and innocuous in his hospital bed. Liam laughs, eyes crinkling up with his smile. It's really sweet.

Blizzards is loud, the big screen in the corner showing a footy match and a lot of people gathered around it. Zayn's girlfriend Perrie is at the bar, and she sends Liam and Nick a huge, lovely smile as they slip through the crowd to order.

"Hey you two!" says Perrie. "You need pizza. You're both getting pizza. Bressie's cooking today, it's so good. I've just eaten my weight in it meself. Oi!" She wanders over to the door to the kitchen, and Nick grins.

"I like her."

"Should see her and Zayn together," Liam says. "They're hilarious. They share clothes and stuff. They wear the same shoe size and everything. They've got really good banter."

"N'aww," says Nick, but before he can coo obnoxiously Perrie is back.

"All set, boys. You go sit down. It's on the house. I've always wanted to say that. Bressie usually gets to. I'll bring your drinks."

"Corona," Nick tells her. "Thanks."

"Just water for me, Pez," says Liam politely. Perrie reaches over and pats him lightly on the cheek, thumbing at his full bottom lip. Liam smiles, but it's strained.

"'m glad you came out, Li. Need to get out of there every now and again. This Grimmy guy seems like good people."

Nick shrugs and looks haughty, but Liam doesn't look thrilled with the reminder that he's not at Louis's side. Nick grips him by the upper arms and marches him over to a table in the corner, the one he and Harry sat at the other night. Liam puts his elbows on the table and folds his hands, sleeves of his jumper sliding down his arms. He's got a long scar high up on his forearm, disappearing into the bend of his elbow where the jumper still covers it up. Nick has no idea how to talk to this kid.

"I hear you're a fireman."

Liam nods. He has the most expressive eyebrows Nick's ever seen. It's really quite devastating to see him sad. "Yeah, have been since I finished college. I like it. It's exciting. And it feels good to help people."

He's so _earnest_. "You meet Louis on the job?"

Liam _smiles_ , this fond, warm thing that makes Nick kind of uncomfortable. Liam's extraordinarily handsome, particularly when he's got a sort of brooding, James Dean expression like he has most times Nick's seen him since they met. He looks a bit daft when he smiles, but there's something so attractive about it, too.

"Yeah," says Liam. He drops his arms onto the table, taps his fingers against his knuckles. "He started a fire at his flat."

"Just to get your attention?"

"No, that's how we met. He didn't do it on purpose. He was trying to make pasta from a box."

Perrie drops off their drinks, says something very fast and somewhat nonsensical with her accent to Liam, and returns to the bar, and Nick's still staring blankly at Liam.

"So he started a fire by boiling water?"

Liam looks disgustingly fond. "He left the box top too close to the stove hob, and it had a bit of a chain reaction once that was on fire."

"He couldn't put it out himself?"

"It destroyed his kitchen. When we got there he'd more or less got it out himself, so he was just standing there soaked with water from the tap in the middle of the room, trying to pat the curtains above the sink out but he was too short to reach them."

"That's adorable," says Nick.

Liam laughs a little. "He was embarrassed. He tends to...lash out, when he's embarrassed or hurt or anything. We got in a huge row right there."

"I can't imagine you angry," Nick tells him. He can't even imagine Liam bothered, let alone mad enough to start shouting. The half-formed character profile he's made up in his head about Louis doesn't quite fit it either.

"I'm usually not. I don't get angry very easily. Louis's the exception to the rule, I suppose."

"He probably loves that." Nick would love that, being something special to someone, something out of the ordinary. He thrives on being the center of attention.

"Yeah, he does."

"How long ago was that?"

"He was in his second year of Uni, so six years, about? I met Harry and Zayn not long after that. The three of them are kind of a package deal."

"Sounds like it," Nick agrees. "So it was a love slash hate romance, then?"

"Something like that. It was more like, misunderstandings. Constantly. He thought I was too reserved and strict and I thought he was too loud and had no concept of personal space." Liam shrugs. "Worked out in the end."

Nick can't really imagine Louis being loud. Of course he can't imagine Louis like, standing up or opening his eyes, either. He gives Liam a winsome smile anyway. "A proper love story, there."

Liam curls his hands around his glass, his smile wistful. "I wish he'd wake up."

Nick doesn't know what to say, and Perrie arrives with their food before he can think of anything. Once she's gone, Nick finds Liam staring into space, a soft smile on his face. Nick's eyebrows draw together. "Liam?"

Liam blinks, focusing back on Nick. "Sorry."

"Okay?" Nick asks.

"Yeah," says Liam, still grinning. "Just thinkin' about Lou."

Nick offers that a fond sort of eye roll. "Of course."

"Haven't you ever been in love like that?" Liam asks him, so earnest it aches a little bit to see it. "Like me and Louis?"

Nick wets his lips and shakes his head. "Nah, can't say I have," he answers.

Liam tilts his head, and then gives Nick an encouraging smile. "One day, yeah?"

Nick laughs, and toasts Liam with his beer. "To one day."

Liam smiles properly. Nick counts it as a win.

 

 

He looks forward to Harry's physio appointments even more now that they're sleeping together, because while it always gave him an excuse to touch him, now he can linger a bit, curl his fingers into the back of Harry's knee and wiggle his eyebrows until Harry laughs where he's lying on the ground, and every now and again they'll sneak a kiss, or a casual grope, or go to Nick's office and close the door to flat out snog. Harry will only be his patient for another week, which is sort of sad, but it's not as though he doesn't practically live at the hospital by Louis's bedside anyway.

At his last appointment, Nick has him cycling on one of the stationary bikes while he lies on his back next to it, singing Take That songs in increasingly obnoxious voices. Harry has his t-shirt off, and he's sweaty and panting. It's pretty much the reason Nick chose to end with the bike. He's seen Harry sweaty and panting nearly every night for the last two weeks, but he doesn't think it's a sight anyone could ever get tired of, really.

Harry slows down the minute Nick's stop watch goes off, and Nick watches his legs work through it until the pedals stop spinning, and then Harry's leaning over to drip sweat out of his hair on Nick, which is disgusting. It doesn't make Nick want to fuck him ‘til he's crying for it any less, but it's gross.

Harry showers and Nick signs off on his papers for his file and grabs the usual pile of brochures and instructions for Harry to take over with exercises at home. He's just got it all neatly stacked into a little R1 Hospital bag when Harry walks in, hair damp and wearing a too-long pair of Nick's scrubs and a white t-shirt.

"Are we playing doctor?" Nick asks eagerly. He's been over his office thoroughly to be certain there's no cameras, he doesn't have to filter himself. Harry shuts the door and walks around to push Nick's chair back so he can sit on the desk in front of him. Then he takes one of Nick's hands and hunches over so he can butt his head against it. Nick laughs and rubs his fingers through Harry's wet curls. Harry sighs happily, his thumb drawing slow circles on the inside of Nick's wrist. He eventually lifts his head, mouths a sweet kiss to Nick's palm.

"Liam said you took him out for lunch the other day."

Nick makes a face. "Well, obviously. What use is fucking you if not to get closer to your hot friends, Styles?"

Harry kicks him lightly in the shin. "I think you like me," he says. Nick scoffs and Harry just smiles wider. "I think you like me and you want me to be happy and that you care about me, and since you care about me you care about my friends."

"Because I wanna be your lover," says Nick.

Harry sort of melts off the desk, falls head first and in slow motion into Nick's lap. Nick has no idea what to do with this, so he gets an arm around him to keep him stable and allows his chair to roll back from the force until it hits the back wall. His certifications hung there rattle menacingly. Harry's taller than him like this, knees on either side of Nick's thighs. Nick looks up at him and Harry touches their foreheads together. Nick wets his lips, feels himself grinning.

"I have three weeks before my work leave is over."

Nick's probably supposed to say something else, but what comes out is, "Let me take you out tonight." Harry pulls back to see him better, head tilted. He's so fucking cute sometimes. Nick feels something warm and dangerous swell up in his chest. He digs his thumb into one of Harry's dimples. "To celebrate the full functionality of your knee."

"Yeah," says Harry. He pretends to consider it for a moment, and then dips his head to kiss Nick, dry and sweet. "Awright."

Nick wakes up the next morning to blinding morning sunlight and a boy in his bed. He presses his mouth to Harry's shoulder and tucks him back more securely into his chest. Harry sighs in his sleep, mumbles something unintelligible. Nick hides his smile against the nape of his neck and goes back to sleep.

 

 

They're out with friends when they run into Chess.

Nick's taken them to his favorite shop, a sort of eclectic home décor slash vintage record slash art gallery. Niall took one look around the place and declared that Louis would _hate_ it, dubbed it Pretentious Hipster Twat One Stop Shop and proceeded to drag Bressie over to look at a neon light in the shape of a giant penis hanging in the corner. Aimee and Ian, who are here all the time as well, wander off to look at the new arrivals. Harry gravitates immediately to the massive wall of records and Nick's pulled along like a magnet.

"This is so sick," Harry breathes, awed. He's got this look on his face that makes Nick want to throw him against the wall and blow him. He's impressed. Nick's _impressed_ him. It's expensive, Nick knows, can see Harry's eyes lingering on the price stickers. Nick has reached a point where he so badly wants to share this part of himself with Harry that he'd buy him whatever he bloody wanted so they could take it back to Nick's and get lost in music for _hours_ , maybe have a nice slow fuck to The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway and then continue their marathon of The Great British Bake-off.

He's about to suggest just that when a painfully familiar voice says, "Nicky?"

Harry looks around first. Nick's sort of frozen, desperately hoping that it's nothing, no one at all, but then there's a hand gently touching his shoulder. He has no idea what the expression on his face must be, but Harry looks really concerned. Nick tries to smile for him, and then turns around. He'd forgotten that this is Chess's favorite shop too. That Chess is the one that introduced him to it.

He looks good. And it's unfair, the way that Harry has become so thoroughly entrenched in his life that Nick immediately draws him up in his mind to compare. Chess looks nothing like him, taller and broader and blond. He's older, and more clean-cut in his trousers and shirt and neatly-slicked hair than Harry could ever be with his awful posture and messy curls. Harry is prettier, younger, ballsier.

"Hi," Nick says, dazed.

"You're back," Chess says, and he smiles, and then he's coming in for a hug. Nick hugs him back. Chess still wears the same cologne.

"Yeah. Yeah, over a month now."

"You look great."

Nick shifts uncomfortably. Harry's hovering awkwardly behind him, and Chess smiles at him too. Nick steps aside to bring Harry forward. "Sorry, sorry. Harry, this is Chess. Chess, Harry."

They shake hands. Chess's fingers are thicker but Harry's hand is bigger. Nick fights back a hysterical laugh. "Nice to meet you," Harry says, smiling. It's so forced that Nick wants to make fun of him, but Chess's smile is sincere and warm, like he understands. Nick hates him for a second.

"You too," Chess says. "God, it's been a long time. You look really good, Nicky. Job okay?"

Nick nods. His mouth feels dry. "Yes, yeah. It's good. Haz here was one of my patients. Not that you can tell, anymore, what with him walking perfectly well, but—"

"Nick's good at what he does," Harry cuts him off. Nick will thank him later, because rambling is one of his worst habits when he's nervous or uncomfortable. Nick has never been _more_ uncomfortable. His chest hurts. This is so awkward.

"Yeah," Chess agrees. "Yeah, he is. Look, I'll, um..."

"Aimee and Ian are here," Nick offers. Chess is trying to be a good guy, can tell that Nick wants him to leave. Nick's more than willing to let him. "You should find them, say hi."

"Right. I'll do that. It was good to see you. And nice to meet you again, Harry."

Nick nods. He's nodding a lot, can't seem to stop. Chess gives him one last smile and walks away. In his wake there's something cold and weird in the air. Harry steps into his line of sight and they stare at each other for a second, and then Harry starts to laugh. Not much, but it breaks the tension, and the two of them end up giggling helplessly even though Nick feels like he's going to be swallowed up whole by the fucking _shadows of his past_ or something.

"Was that an ex or something?" Harry finally asks. "That was so uncomfortable."

Nick grins helplessly and scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah. _The_ ex."

"The one you ran away to America because of."

Nick sticks his tongue out at him. " _Yes_ , if you must know."

"His name is Chess?"

"His name is Nick. Surname is Chessy. I always called him Chess."

"Oh, like Niall and Bressie."

Nick drops a casual arm around his shoulders. "Just like."

Harry grins at him, and then butts his head against Nick's cheek. "C'mon," he says. "You need booze."

Harry might be Nick's favorite person in the world.

 

 

Peter Davison doesn't like Harry very much, though Harry seems to adore him. It's one of the reasons that Nick doesn't like cats—they tend to find the person in the room that likes them least and harass them. Nick can hardly bear to be in the cat's company, and it won't leave him alone. Harry is young, though, and impatient, and he's bought it a hat, so eventually he bodily wrestles Peter Davison away from where he's winding around Nick's legs and pins him between his knees so he can strap a miniature top hat to his head.

By the time it's done, Harry is bleeding from both arms and Peter Davison has deflated onto the floor, unmoving, a low moaning sound gurgling out of his throat, his ears flat to his head. It's as though the hat has weighed him down, or is perhaps slowly petrifying him. Harry sits back and regards the cat between his legs for a long time, and then looks around at Nick, who is on the sofa with a glass of wine.

"He needs a monocle, don't you think?"

"You're bleeding on my carpet," Nick tells him.

"Oh, shit, sorry," Harry mutters, and stands up. He trips over his own feet, and then the cat, and Nick is laughing as he catches him around the waist and tugs him into his lap. Harry comes down in a mess of over-long limbs and giggles and violent swearing.

"Now I'm just bleeding on your couch, idiot."

"Augh!" Nick says, holding a hand to his heart as though mortally wounded. Harry starts beating on him lightly with both fists and Nick squirms, laughing. "No punching!"

Harry is still _giggling_ , digging his bony arse into Nick's thighs. He pushes his knuckles into Nick's sides and Nick gasps, ticklish, and wrestles him down onto his back, pushing him into the sofa cushions and pinning him there. Harry ends up with one arm stretched above his head and sticking up awkwardly because of the arm of the sofa, but he's smiling lazily like he's never been more comfortable. He wraps his long legs around Nick's waist and Nick dips his head to nip at his jaw, nuzzle his way down to Harry's neck and mouth a bruise over his pulse point. He likes to mark Harry up, likes it when Harry wears his clothes, likes that whatever free time Harry has that he doesn't spend at the hospital he spends with Nick.

"Nick," he says, voice thick. He's so easy to get riled up with want, and lusty, horny Harry Styles is one of Nick's very favorite things. "Hey, hey, Nick."

"What?"

"I have a joke."

Harry has a wealth of horrible, usually nonsensical jokes that he finds endlessly amusing. He is also incapable of telling anecdotes without turning them into pointless, meandering stories about absolutely nothing. Nick would usually find it obscene and annoying, but Harry manages to come off as quirky and sweet, instead. Kid must be some kind of magic, really.

"Yeah?" says Nick.

"Yeah. It's pretty good. D'you wanna hear?"

The answer is probably no, but Nick nods. "Yeah, love, let's hear it."

Harry clears his throat importantly. "What did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?"

Nick frowns, thoughtful for less than a second. "What did he say?"

Harry tries valiantly not to smile as he answers. He fails miserably. "'Where's my tractor?'"

Nick groans, loudly, and Harry breaks down into contagious, ridiculous laughter. Nick drops his head into the crook of Harry's neck.

He has a splotch of scar tissue right above his collarbone that Nick favors, and he's just tracing the shape of it with his tongue to distract Harry from whatever awful joke he was about to tell when Harry's breath catches and he goes still. It's not something good, not something to do with Nick at all. Harry doesn't seem to be breathing. Nick lifts his head, finds Harry's expression blank. Nick follows his line of sight to the TV, where some crap action film has been playing for the last hour. What looks like the aftermath of a car crash is on the screen now. Nick's heart drops, and he sits up carefully, cups Harry's cheek.

"Haz."

Harry blinks up at him, and then scrambles out from underneath him and drops onto the floor, reaching across Peter Davison still yowling low and angry on the floor, now trying to back out of the top hat, and finds the remote control. He rewinds the film, starts it a few seconds back where a car is rear ended and slides across a few lanes on a motorway, and then is smashed into by a van. He turns up the volume and plays it again, and again, and again. On the fourth time through Nick slides off the sofa to sit behind him and loops an arm around his middle, tugging him back against his chest and reaching for the remote.

"Hey," Nick murmurs. "Sweetheart, let me...just, here."

Harry doesn't fight it, hands the remote over easily and Nick switches the television off. It's so quiet that it feels like he can hear Harry's heart pounding, can hear his shaky breaths. Harry's still tense in his arms, but he's not pulling away. Nick doesn't know what to say, so he presses his forehead to the back of Harry's head and rubs circles over Harry's chest. Harry is relatively pliant with his body, easily manipulated. Within a few minutes he's matching his breathing to Nick's, purposely slow and deep.

"That's what happened," he says eventually. "But we weren't hit first, it was just. There was ice, but we didn't know. I didn't know, and I wasn't speeding or anything, I swear. The car just started to slide, and, then the lorry, and Louis grabbed the wheel so we spun around—" he motions in the air with his finger in a slow circle, "—so it'd hit his side instead of straight on. A-and then we rolled twice and hit the barrier. It happened just like that."

Nick tightens his arms around him and presses a kiss to the side of his neck. "I'm sorry, love."

Harry finally relaxes against him, forcing a wet little laugh. "No, no, sorry, I just. I haven't had any trouble, y'know, like being in cars or being on the road again or anything. They warned me about flashbacks and stuff but this is. This is the first."

"You said you remembered most of it clearly, yeah?"

Harry pulls his knees up and turns so he's sitting sideways against Nick's chest. Nick keeps a hand on his back, smoothing over the knobs of his spine. Harry winds his arms around his legs loosely and wets his lips. "Yeah. Well, before and then like, right after. The actual crash part feels like it was a dream, sometimes."

"I think you do dream about it. You talk in your sleep sometimes."

It's rare, granted, and usually incoherent, but Nick's been woken up by it a few times in the last month and it's not difficult to work out what Harry's having nightmares about when _'please be all right'_ is trembling out of his mouth on repeat. Harry blinks up at him, his eyes a little wet. Nick cups his cheek, thumbs over the cut of his cheekbone. He doesn't know what to do, if this is something that Harry wants to talk about or not, if that's something he needs.

Peter Davison breaks the tension a bit when he finally frees himself from his hat and immediately darts off down the hallway, probably to destroy something that Nick cares about in revenge. Harry laughs feebly and Nick leans forward with him so he can scoop up the hat by the elastic chin strap. He puts it around Nick's wrist like a bracelet. Nick dons it proudly, and Harry smiles up at him. It's still a bit vulnerable, but he's more relaxed now. He leans up to kiss Nick quietly on the mouth.

"You're a really good friend, Nick Grimshaw."

Nick shrugs. He's done nothing but wear a pet's hat as a bracelet. "Yeah," he says, and Harry laughs. This time it's completely genuine.

 

 

Nick's trawling Facebook and snacking on some string cheese in the courtyard outside the back entrance of the hospital. It's a pleasantly cool March afternoon, sun shining through the trees. Nick scowls at a picture of himself passed out on Henry's bathroom floor.

"Should put that on your online dating profile, you should," says Harry.

Nick looks up to find him and Liam standing behind the bench he's sitting on. "There are some good ones of you in here too," he tells Harry slyly, "and Zayn and Pezza. You're only fully dressed in three of them."

"That's not weird," Liam says. "Harry never wears clothes."

"It's true."

Nick is delighted. "I love this reputation you've got, Styles!" He stands up and pockets his phone, pulling his jacket a bit tighter around himself. "So, lunch? I'm starving."

"Actually, do you mind making a side trip first?" Harry asks.

"Lou's ring is ready," says Liam. "You two don't have to go with me if you don't want. I can meet you after."

"Don't be ridiculous," Nick says at once. Louis's wedding ring had to be cut off his finger when he was suffering from sepsis due to the swelling. Liam bought a new one a few weeks ago, but it needed to be resized. The jewelry shop isn't far, and Nick is nosy. "I want to see it."

Harry laughs, and Liam smiles enough that his eyes crinkle up with it. Nick shoves his hands into his pockets as they walk, and his arms brushes past Harry's every other step.

Liam's ring is classic and gold, a thick band that suits him really well. Louis's is white gold and skinnier. Nick makes a face. "I like yours better," he tells Liam.

Liam looks surprised, but he laughs. "He's not really into jewelry, and he refused to wear gold."

"He'll love it, Li," says Harry, stepping on Nick's foot before Nick can open his mouth again. He's smiling a really weird smile, though, big but insubstantial. Nick's never seen that expression on his face before. He waits until Liam is busy talking to the woman who is wrapping the ring up for him to grip Harry's wrist for a second.

"All right, love?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, yeah. Just tired."

He's a terrible liar. Nick doesn't push.

That night at Nick's, Harry wakes up sweaty and shaking, breathing hard, a strangled sound caught in his throat. Nick's heart is racing from coming awake so fast himself. He pulls Harry into his arms and strokes his hair and his back until he stops trembling.

"Weird dream," Harry murmurs into Nick's shoulder. His hair is tickling Nick's cheek. "Really weird dream."

"You're a weird guy," Nick says. "Makes sense, yeah?"

Harry's laugh is breathy. His mouth touches a kiss to Nick's collarbone. "Yeah. Sorry I woke you up."

"Don't be," says Nick. Normally he'd joke about it, make a big deal about being dragged from his beauty sleep, but he's starting to think that it's not something to joke about, really. He's starting to think that Harry really might not be okay.

 

 

It's Tuesday, and Nick's schedule has been so packed today that he doesn't have time to go up and check on Louis's latest scans until well after he should be home and probably asleep, since tomorrow promises to be just as brutal. The lights in the long-term ward have been dimmed down. Nick's rubbing his tired eyes and yawning probably rather unattractively when he steps off the lift.

There's some kind of noise coming from Louis's room, something rather more violent than he usually hears. He takes the last few meters at a jog and skids to a halt outside, stunned into stillness by the sight of Harry, up on the bed and straddling Louis's legs, leaning down over him with his hands clenched in Louis's t-shirt and shaking him. Even with the light off in the room it's obvious that Harry's crying, his breath coming out in angry sobs. His voice sounds wrecked and desperate and audible even over the loud creak of the shaking bed. "Wake up, wake up, wake up now this isn't funny anymore stop fucking joking around Louis wake up wake up _wake up!_ "

He coughs out another sob that sounds torn from deep in his chest. It's enough to finally break Nick out of frozen horror and he gets both arms around Harry to pull him off the bed. Harry fights, furiously, and Nick's worried that he's going to dislodge the tube from Louis's throat because he won't _let go of him_. Nick has to pry Harry's fingers away from Louis's t-shirt and haul him off with one arm. They end up slammed back into the wall, Nick's head bouncing off painfully and Harry pulled in tight to his chest. Harry's quaking in his arms, struggling hard enough that Nick has to hold him back by the arms, nails digging into skin. 

"Wake up, you fucking twat, wake up wake up! Let me go! Let me the fuck _go!_ " Harry elbows him hard in the chest and Nick grunts, using every bit of his considerable height advantage and the fact that Harry still has a weak knee to subdue him.

Nick's never seen anything like this before, especially not from Harry, who's been nothing but easy-going and mellow since Nick met him almost three months ago. Nick takes another elbow to the gut before he manages to pin Harry's arms to his sides.

"Harry, Harry! Jesus, what the fuck are you—"

"He won't wake up," Harry shouts, voice like he's swallowed razor blades. "He won't _wake up_ he'll never wake up and it's my fault it's...It's my fault."

"Oh, Hazza," Nick murmurs. Harry deflates a little, breathing so rough Nick's afraid he's going to start hyperventilating, but instead he turns in the circle of Nick's arms and hides against him, face pressed into Nick's neck. Nick hugs him as hard as he can, his eyes prickling. "Shh, love, it's all right. It's not your fault. Christ, it's not your fault."

Harry shakes his head jerkily, his feet getting caught up in Nick's as he pushes in closer like he's trying to crawl inside him. "It's all I can think about," he groans miserably. "I can't stop remembering. He was _awake_ and he was bleeding from his mouth and I couldn't move my arm to reach him and the car was all crushed around him and he kept telling me to be good. That's all he'd say, over and over and he wouldn't answer any of my questions and I didn't know how hurt he was and he just kept saying it, _'Be good, Curly, okay? Be good Haz'._ What the fuck kind of _answer_ is that?"

"I don't know, I don't know," Nick whispers, pressing his mouth to Harry's hair and forehead and temple, feeling helpless and useless and completely wretched. He's seen Harry hurting before but he's never seen him in pain like this, and he's not sure he can bear it.

"He wouldn't shut up, an' he wouldn' pass out. They had to use that-that jaws of life. That machine thing to get us out and part of the car was _inside him_ and he was _screaming_. And I couldn't. I couldn't get to him. I couldn't. I didn't..." He groans. "I should've been driving more carefully. I should've been. I should've been _better_. I should...It should've been me. It should've been _me_ and he won't _wake up_..."

Nick pushes Harry away just so he can cup his face in his hands. He smears his thumbs through the tears on Harry's cheeks and kisses him, tastes salt. "No," he says, roughly against his mouth. "You're wrong. You're _wrong_ and it wasn't your fault and it shouldn't've been you. Christ, Harry, it _wasn't your fault_."

"He's so fucking loud all the time," Harry hiccups. "He's so loud and he's so funny and he's been taking care of me my whole life and he's my _best friend_. I miss him. I fucking miss him, Nick, and he won't—he can't. What if he never wakes up?"

Nick presses his lips together and tugs Harry back in, lets Harry hide his face in his neck, rubbing his back. After a few minutes, when his quiet sobs seem to ebb, Nick slowly but methodically walks Harry backward to the small sofa against the opposite wall. He eases Harry onto it and flicks on the lamp that's on the small table next to the arm of the sofa. Harry winces at the light, and Nick crouches down in front of him and puts his hands on Harry's knees, looking up so he can see his face. Harry's eyes are red, face a mess, lips bitten. He's unfairly pretty when he cries.

"Harry," Nick breathes.

Harry sniffles and rubs his hand over his face, across his nose. He coughs into his elbow and then meets Nick's eyes again. "I didn't get to say goodbye," he says brokenly.

Nick shakes his head. "It hasn't come to that yet. He's alive, Haz. He's there. His body is still healing itself. He's still functioning."

"Zayn says he's lost. Needs to find his way back home."

Nick offers a weak grin. "Maybe, yeah. Or maybe he's waiting for just the right moment. Didn't you say he loves drama?"

Harry snorts, which actually sounds rather gross with how much he's been crying, but the sight of him smiling even a little bit makes Nick's chest unclench a bit. He gets up onto his knees so they're almost eye level and tugs gently on Harry's curls, pushes a few back behind his ear. Harry takes a few slow, deep breaths, then lifts one of Nick's hands to nuzzle his cheek against Nick's knuckles.

"'m sorry. For cryin' all over you."

"S'okay," says Nick. He strokes his fingers down over Harry's neck, feels that his pulse has slowed down to something approaching normal. He's calming. He leans in and kisses Nick gently, mouth still salty-wet from tears. Nick opens his mouth when Harry's tongue presses into the seam of his lips, and cradles the back of Harry's head in his hand, traces the tip of his tongue along the underside of Harry's. Harry sighs into his mouth, twists his hands into Nick's t-shirt and tugs him in closer, withdraws his tongue so he can sink his teeth lightly into Nick's bottom lip.

It's so intense with him, always. Has been since the second Nick saw him. It's so easy to get swept up into the need, the heat, the litany of need and want and now that sparks between them, wraps around them. Harry's thigh tenses under his hand and his knees spread a little. He spills a rough, jagged moan into Nick's mouth and smears his lips down Neck's cheek, tongue swiping over the sensitive skin just in front of Nick's ear.

"Nick," he murmurs, all husky and deep and so hot, breath rasping in Nick's ear. Drying tears rub off onto Nick's face. "Nick, I want—"

"Yeah," Nick says. He feels overheated, blood buzzing in his veins. He gets a hand between Harry's legs just to feel how hard he is, catches Harry's rough grunt in his mouth again when he snares him into another kiss. Harry's hips buck up off the sofa, legs opening wider. Nick palms him roughly a couple of times and then tugs at the fastenings of his trousers. He slides his hand inside, past the waistband of his pants to feel skin. Harry hisses, his head falling back, and Nick kisses his way down Harry's neck and chest through his white t-shirt. He drags his teeth over a nipple, moans hotly when Harry's fingers tangle in his hair and pull. His dick is throbbing in his jeans, and his mouth is watering with the need to taste Harry. Harry lifts his hips so Nick can tug his pants down, tuck the elastic under the heavy weight of his balls. Harry shivers, cock hard and pink against his belly, pre-come pearling at the tip.

Nick laps it up, squeezes Harry's hip at slurred, encouraging noise Harry makes. He closes his mouth around the head and Harry sighs deeply, drops his head back onto the sofa and lets his mouth fall open. Every sound he makes is scorching, sears straight to Nick's dick. Nick takes tongues the slit over and over, cups Harry's balls in his free hand and squeezes them gently. Harry gives a soft little cry and his hips roll up. Nick sinks his mouth further down, feels the tug of his hair in Harry's fingers. Harry's skin is so hot, smooth and pulsing against Nick's tongue. Nick follows the vein on the underside all the way down, throat opening up around the head, eyes fluttering closed.

"Nick," Harry's saying, "Fuck, Nick, _Nick._ "

"Haz? What're you—"

Nick pulls off as quickly as he can without choking. The overhead light flickers to life, and all of the sudden it isn't Nick and Harry sharing a private, intimate moment. It's Nick blowing Harry in a hospital room with an open door. It's Nick with his mouth wet and red and Harry with his dick hanging out of his trousers and Liam's standing just inside the door.

Harry blanches, meets Nick's eyes for barely a second before he's scrambling to tuck himself back in. "Jesus, fuck, Liam. I'm so—"

Liam doesn't open his mouth, but the sound he makes is one of the most intimidating things Nick's ever heard of in his life. Nick's spent a lot of time with Liam, hasn't seen him in any state other than sad, obviously, and gentle puppyishness. Harry told him once that Liam's got the longest fuse in the world, but that when he gets angry he's like the Hulk. Nick hadn't believed him, then. It's easier to see it now. Liam looks absolutely _livid_. He's wearing his uniform, has clearly just come off of a very long shift at the fire station. His hair is tousled out of its usual carefully gelled spikes and the circles under his eyes like bruises look darker than ever. He's _shaking_ with how angry he is.

Nick wants to say something, to explain, except there's nothing he can think of that could possibly explain this. He can only get slowly to his feet and feel deeply impressed when Liam manages to take a deep breath and say, as evenly as possible, "I think you two should go."

Nick thinks that would be a great idea. Harry takes a few steps toward his friend, though, pleading. "Liam, please, I'm so, so—I just. Nick was just—"

"I _saw_ what Nick was just," Liam bites out. He snaps his mouth closed again and takes another slow breath. "I can't believe you—"

"We didn't mean to, Li, it wasn't like that! We were—"

"Your best fucking friend is in a coma and you were _getting your dick sucked in his hospital room._ "

Harry looks like he's been slapped. Nick feels vaguely nauseated and a bit like he's dreaming, because surely this can't actually be happening. He cares too much about his job to have done this. He's too professional to have done this. It's so absurd that even as dread and humiliation and guilt form a rock in Nick's chest that's threatening to crush all of his internal organs, he's suddenly fighting back laughter. He finds himself looking around at Louis, silent and still rumpled from Harry's manhandling earlier. Harry's always going on about how great his sense of humor is. Nick wonders if he'd think this is funny.

"Li," Harry says weakly. He sounds wretched. "Liam, please, I'm so sorry. You have to—"

"Harry you need to _go_ ," Liam growls. Nick's never seen anyone so angry before. He looks out for blood. It's probably taking all of his willpower not to strangle Harry right now. "You need to take Nick and you need to get out before I fucking _kill you_ , okay?"

It's worse, Nick thinks, than if Liam had completely lost it, because as furious as Liam is it's just as easy to see how disappointed he is, too, how exhausted and worried and scared he is. Harry's crying again. Nick steps up behind him and grips his shoulder, the most comfort he can really offer, but Harry shrugs it off. He slips past Liam with another quiet apology and disappears into the hallway.

Liam stands aside for Nick to get by too. Nick doesn't know what to say. The kid has every right to be angry with them but he probably has no idea what he's just done to Harry, probably has no idea that Harry was already breaking under the weight of guilt. Nick's selfish enough to care more about Harry's well-being than Liam's. He walks out without another word.

Harry's most of the way down the hall. Nick breaks into a jog to catch up to him. Harry pulls away when Nick grips his elbow, but he stops. He's got tears on his face again, spilling past his eyelashes. His face is red, though. He looks angry. Nick leads him into an empty exam room and closes the door.

"I'm so sorry, love," he says, reaching for him, because Harry looks like he's about to break apart. Harry takes a step back, shaking his head.

"He was right," he croaks.

"Ha—"

"No, he was right. My best friend died twice a few months ago. He's lying in a coma he might never wake up from. His partner's barely hanging on by a thread, his mother's having weekly breakdowns and is barely able to visit. He's been fighting for his life for _months_ and I've been shagging our physical therapist."

It stings. Nick looks down at his feet, tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. He clears his throat, says, "Well," but can't think of anything else. Harry pushes his hands through his hair and takes a shaky breath, exhales with a bitter laugh that doesn't sound anything like him at all.

"And I've been like, thinking what a great love story this could be, y'know? I mean like when I'm trying to fall asleep at night, with you next to me. I've even been telling Lou, like, car crash leaves one boy wounded and one in a coma. Wounded boy meets hot, smart, funny, quirky physical therapist. They fall in love. Other boy wakes up from coma good as new. It's all just romantic, isn't it?"

Nick's couldn't look away if he tried. Harry's face is twisted into something heart-wrenching, bitter and angry and self-loathing. "Instead we've got one boy so fucking stupid he's dreaming up these fairy tale endings, one hot, smart, funny, quirky physical therapist still hopelessly hung up on his posh ex boyfriend and one boy comatose with decreasing brain wave activity and recurring fevers and a worse prognosis with every day that passes. Not much of a love story, really."

Nick feels numb all over. He doesn't even argue. He can't think of anything to say, just knows he'd do _anything_ to get that look off Harry's face. To make him smile. To make him happy again. They never defined this thing. Nick didn't want to. Nick doesn't like making promises. What he ends up saying is, "I'm sorry."

Harry swipes his hand over his eyes. He looks old and weary and miserable. He says, "Yeah. Me too."

He leaves after that, shuts the door quietly behind him and Nick's left alone. It's a feeling he should be used to, he thinks, this giant gaping void that opens up in his chest and hollows him out.

 

 

He spends the next six nights heinously drunk. His friends feel sorry for him so he's able to drag them to clubs and he gets wasted and he dances and he chats up pretty boys and never follows through with them. It makes his days eternally long and difficult to get through, but it's worth it to not remember the nights, because he's pretty positive that each one ends with him curled up alone in his bed feeling horribly ill and missing Harry Styles.

And the thing is, it's not _just_ Harry. He misses talking to Liam and Zayn, and he misses the Nialls and Perrie and Bressie's coffee, which is superior to any other coffee ever made. He misses the other stuff that Harry brought into his life, too.

He drinks two bottles of wine one Friday night and finds himself lying in his hallway on his stomach and talking to his cat. His eyes are watering and swollen because he forgot to take his allergy tablets, and because he's feeling a bit weepy. Peter Davison is completely unsympathetic. He's lying in a loose curl, and he has one paw pushed into Nick's cheek, claw not out but threatening every once in a while. He's blinking at Nick and looking very lordly.

"It was so easy," Nick tell him, voice slurring. "Like, he didn't have any rules. There were no rules! We could just be together and feel good and it was good. We had a good thing going, P. And now it's all fucked up. All of it! An' I don't even know what happened, really. Why hasn't he rung me? He should ring me. He was wrong about me, y'know. All wrong."

Peter Davison closes his eyes like Nick is boring him, and Nick drops his forehead down to the carpet, his nose squashed. He should've got a dog. A dog would be affectionate and give him a cuddle. He sighs loudly. "I'm sad," he murmurs. "I'm just. I'm really sad."

He falls asleep on the floor, and wakes up Saturday morning with a horrible hangover and Peter Davison's big furry bum in his face. He feels low. Really, really low. 

 

 

His 9:00 am appointment cancels, and it's an x-ray week for Louis, so Nick steels himself and makes his way upstairs. He hasn't seen or heard from Harry in two weeks, hasn't passed him in the hallways or had him duck into his office like he used to all the time. He hasn't even run into Liam or Zayn or Niall. Nick's been avoiding the fifth floor like the plague during the day, only going upstairs late at night to lead Louis through his daily passive exercises. He's sure that they've all been filled in on what Liam walked in on, and he's dreading facing any of them, truth be told, but when he gets to Louis's room around nine-thirty it's empty save for the patient himself.

Nick's so relieved it makes his knees a little weak. He pulls the new x-rays out of Louis's chart and takes a look, still very pleased with how well it's healing, and then puts them back. It should be that quick, in and out in five minutes. But instead of leaving he finds himself dropping into the chair Liam usually occupies right by the bed. Louis's lips are chapped as hell from the breathing tube. He's got little hands. According to his chart he's just over five foot seven. Little guy, then. Nick rests his elbows on his knees and slumps over so he can prop his chin in one hand.

"We haven't really had a chat before. Terribly rude of us, I think. I'm Nick Grimshaw. I'll be your physical therapist. You're twenty-five with a fully reconstructed hip, so chances are you're going to hate me for a while when we get started, but that's all right. I'm very gracious and forgiving."

Louis is silent, face tilted toward Nick. His heart monitor is an oddly soothing beat in the background. Nick sighs. It's one of those days. He's been sighing a lot. "I've heard a lot about you. Went with Harry and Liam to pick up your new wedding ring a few weeks ago. It looks good on you. Liam's is gold. Apparently you wanted white gold, which is fine, I suppose. Liam's looks better."

Louis is completely unhelpful. Nick hums quietly, closes his eyes. He has half an hour to kill. "You've been unconscious for almost five months now. A bit overdramatic, don't you think? Your family's losing their mind over you. And your friends. A little infection really shouldn't have caused this."

Louis doesn't answer. Nick leans back in the chair and looks up at the ceiling, counts the water spots. Wonders where the water spots _came from_ , as there's another floor above. He wonders what room is directly above them. "You're really just being stubborn, now. I'm having to come _all the way up here_ every day, and it's terribly inconvenient. If you're really as much of an attention whore as everyone claims you are, you should wake up and revel in the madness it'll cause. You'll be like a pop star or summat. People will be traveling in from all over the country to see you."

He sighs, and stands up again. "You should wake up, I'm just saying," he says. "Think about it. I'll see you later, Lou."

He doesn't mean for it to become a thing, but it does. He still has to go to Louis's room once a day to move his body through his passive exercises and to check his x-rays every other Tuesday night, and each time he's there he stays a little bit longer and talks to Louis. It's like free therapy. He tells him about his house and what funny thing he heard on the radio in the morning, and about his cat and how he's trying to be better about keeping his house tidy. He tells him about Chess leaving him and how it maybe affected him more than he wants to believe, and he tells him about Harry. It feels good to get a lot of it off his chest. No one really knows how much coma patients can comprehend. It's not like talking to a wall. Louis in a coma is a good, unbiased listener.

He's sitting in Liam's usual chair and regaling Louis with a tale about his sister and niece when a horrible choking sound cuts him off and scares the unholy shit out of him. He almost falls out of the chair, feet slipping on the rung, and it rolls backward a bit from how quickly he straightens up. He's met with a pair of wide, terrified blue eyes and a little hand flailing at him, finding his knee and curling into his scrubs. Louis's choking on the tube in his throat, making it worse by panicking, and Nick is all kinds of not qualified to be dealing with this.

"Holy shit!" he tells Louis, voice a notch below hysterical. Louis is still choking and panicking. Nick puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him still. "All right, all right, you need to calm down, okay? Louis, look at me."

He's pretty good with his commanding voice. Louis's eyes are still wide and he's shaky, but he stops moving so much. Nick hasn't had to do this often, but his hands are steady as he removes the breathing tube from Louis's throat. Louis coughs, sucks in a little breath. Nick sets the tube aside and hits the call button.

Louis's incredibly disoriented and obviously frightened. He says, "Who. Who're. Who."

"Nick," Nick tells him. "I'm Nick. You're gonna be all right now, okay?"

"Liam," Louis says. His voice is very small and scared.

"I'll get him. He'll be here."

He doesn't get an answer, and as soon as the nurses and on-call doctor arrive ("I was just checking his x-rays!" Nick shouts), he's shuffled out of the way and into the hall. He's shaking when he pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He imagines he can still feel the warmth from Louis's hand on his knee.

He hasn't tried to contact Harry since Harry stormed out of the hospital that night Liam walked in on them. Harry doesn't answer his phone, and Nick leaves a text message instead of a voicemail. It takes Nick three times to tap it in. _Louis woke up._

The rest of his day moves in staggering stretches of time. Some hours pass so quickly he feels whiplashed, and some so slowly that he checks his phone every three minutes, bereft when so little time has passed and he still hasn't heard anything from Harry. He wants to know how he is, how Louis is, how Liam and Zayn and Niall and Bressie are. And then he has to remind himself that it's none of his business, that he'll find out as soon as Louis's PT appointments are scheduled, and that he has no right to ask questions.

He's considering pulling the bottle of tequila he keeps in his desk for emergencies and drowning in his sorrow at the end of the day when Pixie lets herself into his office. She's smiling. Nick drops his head onto his desk and groans in relief. Pixie sits herself on the edge of her desk and strokes his hair. He looks up at her sideways.

"He's all right, then?"

She beams. "He's _fantastic_. Ian said that he was awake for all of five minutes after you left. When he woke up lucid Liam and his friends were with him. Harry too. He got your text. He asked me to thank you."

Nick swallows past the obstruction in his throat, reluctantly sits up. "Prognosis?"

"Good. Better than I could've hoped. He's tired and quite weak, but restless. Not much pain. He mentioned that his hip is sore but that's to be expected. His whole body will be sore for a bit. He's not showing signs of brain damage save for some very minor motor function issues with his right hand. He's loud, and sharp, and _funny_. He's beautiful, Nick. I was starting to lose hope."

"How's Harry?" Nick asks before he can stop himself. Pixie looks at him fondly and cups his cheek, leaning in to press a dry kiss to his lips.

"The lot of them were bawling. These five boys all crowded together, four of them just sobbing all over each other. I had to pry them away to examine him."

"Did he tell Harry that it isn't his fault?"

Pixie raises an eyebrow, but shakes her head. "Not that I heard."

Nick frowns darkly. That was the whole point of Louis waking up, wasn't it? He was meant to tell Harry that what happened wasn't his fault and make Harry happy again. "Twatty of him," he says.

Pixie's got her surprised eyebrows on. She stares at Nick for a long time, and he stares sternly back at her, and then she smiles a bit and leans over to nudge him with her shoulder. "You're absolutely mad for him, aren't you?

Nick ends up working until after midnight, filing overdue paperwork and organizing his office and procrastinating going home to his empty flat. He spends almost forty-five minutes looking for his iPad before he remembers that the last place he had it was Louis's room, where he'd taken it to update the progress on Louis's hip scans. The universe clearly has it out for him, Nick decides.

It's too much to hope that Louis's room will be empty. The fifth floor is silent but there's light spilling out into the dark corridor from Louis's room. Nick bites his bottom lip and peers inside. It's packed with people. Nick searches out Harry first, finds him wrapped in a sleeping bag on the floor next to Niall, Bressie, Zayn and Zayn's girlfriend Perrie. Two little blond girls are zonked out on the sofa—Louis's twin sisters, Nick assumes—and two older blond girls also in sleeping bags right in front. A dark-haired woman who must be Louis's mum is asleep on a small foldout bed near the window. Nick's iPad is on the small table next to the sofa. There's a clear path, too, between the girls on the floor and Zayn and Harry's feet.

Nick's just considering diving for it when a throat clears pointedly and he looks around further inside the room to see the bed. Of course Louis is the only one awake. Kid's really been nothing but a cock-blocking pain in Nick's arse since he got back from America. The head of the bed is elevated a bit, and Lous's wearing a too-big jumper that Nick's seen on Liam a dozen times. Liam himself is in bed with Louis, curled into his side with his cheek on Louis's chest, head tucked under his chin. Louis's hand is under Liam's t-shirt, moving in slow circles over Liam's back. Liam has tears tracks streaked down his face, and he's sleeping hard, eyes crusting a bit at the lashes. Nick feels a strange swell of fondness for him as he carefully picks his way over to the bed. It's probably the first time Liam's really slept since the accident.

"Hiya," Nick murmurs, voice as low as he can make it without whispering. "I just came for my thing." He wiggles his fingers in the general direction of his iPad.

Louis rubs his cheek against his pillow and looks up at Nick through his eyelashes. He looks tired, but better than pretty much everyone else in the room. "You're Nick."

His voice is rough, very raspy. Having a plastic tube shoved down it for five months will do that though, Nick supposes. He shrugs. "Yep. And you're Louis. We've talked a bit. Well, I've talked, anyway."

"You were there when I woke up."

"Checking x-rays," Nick tells him, inexplicably defensive. Louis's eyebrows lift, and Nick frowns sternly at him. "I'm your physical therapist."

"Oh," says Louis. And then, " _Oh._ " He looks at Harry.

"Right," says Nick. "You should rest, so I'll just take my iPad and leave, then."

Louis doesn't protest. Liam makes a soft, snuffly shound in his sleep and Louis hums quietly, closes his eyes and buries his face in Liam's hair and kisses the top of his head. Nick crosses the room to collect his iPad and makes for the door. Louis awake makes him a bit uncomfortable.

"Bye, Nick," says Louis.

Nick pauses and turns back to offer him a weak smile, "Bye, Louis."

 

 

Truth be told Nick's spent the last five months being told how amazing Louis Tomlinson is, how he's hilarious and has such a good heart and how he's clucky and gentle and kind and saves orphans from burning buildings and kittens from trees and the planet Earth from threatening meteors. Nick's been expecting Clark Kent or Peter Parker.

Fifteen minutes into Louis's first PT appointment, and Nick decides that Louis is lucky he's so cute, because it's his only saving grace.

He's loud, and bossy, and he has no filter. He's weak and in pain, and grumpy because he's weak and in pain. He spent the first ten minutes grilling Nick on his qualifications to be a physical therapist, and has spent the last five poking forlornly at his tiny belly. Nick's hardly been able to get a word in, and whenever he has Louis's found fit to contradict him on whatever it is, just out of spite. He's funny, at least, which is refreshing, but his defense mechanisms are irritating.

They're in the pool, because Louis can hardly walk without help on his own, let alone exercise. Nick's been trying to coax him from where he's sat on the second step, looking pale and shaky, his swimming trunks bright yellow. There's no one else in the gym at all, because it's nearly nine at night. Nick wonders if he could get away with murder by drowning.

"Louis."

"I used to have a six pack," says Louis, still prodding at his belly.

Nick rolls his eyes, "You're twenty-five years old. You'll get it back. But not by sitting there whinging about it."

"I'm not whinging," says Louis. It does the trick, though, and he pushes himself off the step gingerly. He can hardly manage that, and he's already frustrated. Nick winds an arm around his waist and Louis narrows his eyes, but he keeps quiet and lets Nick help him stand, water lapping at the wicked scar on his abdomen, and then at his chest as they wade into deeper water for more support. It's maybe ten steps, and even with most of his weight on Nick Louis is trembling from the exertion, hand clutching at Nick's side.

"Shit shit shit," Louis breathes through clenched teeth. He's favoring his left leg. Nick shifts them enough that Louis has to put more pressure on it, and Louis bites his lip on a growl. "Sadist."

Nick grins. "We haven't even started yet."

"Remember a couple of weeks ago, when I was unconscious and you just wiggled me around a bit? Let's go back to that."

"If only," Nick sighs. Louis glares, but he's in too much obvious discomfort for it to do anything but make Nick smile. "It's my job to push you beyond what you think you can take. I've got a bit more experience with this than you do."

"Arrogant much?" Louis says at once, painfully taking a full step when Nick urges him to. He makes it three with his bad hip before they have to rest.

"Good! You're doing really well," Nick tells him.

"Don't talk to me like I'm a dog," says Louis. Nick's eyes are going to get stuck in the back of his head from the number of times he's rolled them.

"You're sort of unpleasant. They talked about you like you're the second coming of Christ, but really you're just a bit of a brat. It's been twenty minutes. Harry didn't complain this much."

" _Harry_ is a bloody masochist," Louis says. It would sound more menacing if he wasn't panting. Nick hums thoughtfully, and forces another five steps to the edge of the pool. This is the least physical of the workouts Nick has planned for today, but he's not quite ready to tell Louis that.

"There, see? Not so bad."

Louis's sweating at his temples, holding onto Nick as tightly as he can to stay upright. Despite the general whining, he seems determined. In fact, as far as defense mechanisms go, Nick thinks he and Louis probably have quite a few in common. Louis would rather be angry than weak, would rather make people laugh at his flaws than give anyone a chance to point them out. He must be scared. He's lost five months of his life. Nick would be terrified.

"He told me about you, you know," Louis says suddenly.

Nick, temporarily distracted by his foray into psychoanalyzing, blinks down at him. "Hm?"

"Harry. He told me everything."

Nick quirks an eyebrow, stomach squirming. "How are you sure he told you _everything_?"

Louis snorts. "He's the worst liar in the world. He could never keep anything from me."

Brat. "Hm."

"He was shifty on what the two of you decided to do, though. Have you spoken to him since Liam yelled at you both?"

It sounds stupid. It _is_ stupid, and it hurts. He shrugs. "Have you told him it's not his fault yet?"

"Getting blown in my hospital room? Because if that was non-consensual dick-sucking I will pay someone to kick your arse—"

" _No_ ," Nick says, cheeks reddening a little. He wants to splash water at Louis, but he's supposed to be a professional. He doesn't even know where this sudden petulance came from. "For the car crash."

Louis looks at him with an indecipherable expression on his face for several moments, and then shrugs carelessly and pushes his hair out of his eyes. "No."

"He's blaming himself," Nick presses. "You know that, yeah?"

"I know."

"You should tell him it's not his fault."

"Should I?" Louis asks.

Nick doesn't know what to say. He's frustrated. Negotiating with Louis was better when he was unconscious, and if he's really such a saint he should tell his friend that he doesn't blame him for something that wasn't his fault. "Do _you_ blame him?"

Louis quirks an eyebrow, lips tugging into an enigmatic smile. Nick tugs him gently off the wall where he's been comfortably immobile and makes him walk again. Louis winces. "Of course I don't blame him. Look, the other lads say you're a really good guy and I know you and Harry have like, got close lately or whatever, but he's my best friend and I know him really well and you're not allowed to tell me what he and I need to talk about."

He has a point. It's not his business. Harry's not really his business anymore. He pushes his wet fingers through his hair, one arm still steadying around Louis's back. "Fair enough. Sorry."

Louis shakes his head dismissively. It's quiet for a while as Louis concentrates on moving, and then Nick asks, "Did you really used to have a six pack?"

Louis laughs, bright and sweet and possibly the first genuine sound Nick's heard him make. "For about six months when I was eighteen."

"Thought so."

Louis jabs him in the ribs with an elbow.

Nick puts him through the motions for an hour with under water exercises, and by the time Liam and a nurse come to pick Louis up he's absolutely exhausted and most likely in for a narcotic for the pain. He had to stop talking in the end, which was rewarding in a number of ways, but Nick is proud of him.

"He did really well," Nick assures Liam, helping him settle Louis, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, into his wheelchair. He's red-cheeked and his jaw is clenched, his eyes a bit distant. His fingernails are leaving crescent moon indents in the back of Liam's hand. Liam gives Nick a sincere, worried smile, and crouches down next to Louis's chair. Louis lets his head roll onto Liam's shoulder and tucks his face into his neck, back heaving as he breathes, and Liam's fingers trail through the downy soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

"I hate you," Louis tells Nick, his voice muffled.

"That's what I'm here for," says Nick automatically. 

Louis's good people. He reminds Nick a lot of himself, a lot of the little bits of himself that he doesn't like, and it's a bit uncomfortable to be around him, but he's fine. He's still sort of a stranger. Liam's become a friend, and seeing him like this now, all that anxiety and pain and sadness gone, feels good. Nick's happy for him. He's really, really happy for him.

 

 

Louis has PT once a day, hour-long, intense sessions that are trying on both mind and body. He's still dealing with the return of his basic motor functions and with muscle atrophy, as well as the reconstructed hip. He whines a lot, and bitches about anything that comes to mind. He swears at Nick half-heartedly and keeps up a running mantra just to distract himself, but he does really, really well. On the fourth day, Nick reduces him to quiet, heart-wrenching tears just from physical exertion, and Nick helps him onto the second step of the pool half an hour in.

"I think we're done for tonight," he says. He means to sound gentle.

"No," Louis says stubbornly, but he can hardly hold himself up. His arms are trembling. "No, I'm fine. I'm just. I'm _tired_ , that's all. It's nothing."

"You can sit here and cycle your legs under the water if you want, but that's it. You've done really good."

"Ugh, shut up," says Louis. He leans back on his hands and starts to wiggle his legs a bit. His swimming trunks are blinding. Nick shakes his head.

"I'm gonna fetch Liam."

"He's working. Haz's collecting me tonight."

"I'll fetch him, then."

His voice comes out steady. Nick's proper proud of himself. Louis gives him this _look_ , which would make Nick flick him hard in the forehead if there weren't still tears on his cheeks. He's at least doing the exercises correctly now. Nick climbs out of the pool and dries off as much as he can before padding into the reception area down the hall from his office. The receptionist will call Harry. It's part of her job.

When he gets back to the pool, Louis's pulling himself out of the water and standing on shaky legs. Nick gets a towel wrapped around him. Louis's still a bit sniffly, quiet. He even says thank you when Nick eases him into his wheelchair. He's able to walk with help, but he's too drained right now for Nick to be comfortable with it. Louis doesn't argue, just slumps down with his elbows on his knees and tries to catch his breath.

"Okay?" Nick asks him. Louis's shoulders are shaking a bit, but it seems as much self-deprecating laughter as tears. He picks his head up with a sniffle and rubs at his bloodshot eyes. Nick's seen a lot of crying in his line of business, was trained in university to handle it, so it doesn't make him uncomfortable, but it's still kind of sad. Yesterday Louis was angry, frustrated that he can't move the way he wants when he wants, that he's having to relearn how to hold a pen and write again, that his body's not as sharp as his mind is. Today he's sad and tired. Really, he's been one of Nick's easier patients thus far, moodswings aside. Nick sits down cross-legged on the tile next to Louis's chair.

"Ian says you haven't been sleeping," he says.

Louis makes a congested sound. " _Ian_ ," is all he says, nastily.

"You're not stupid. You know you need to rest more than anything."

Louis kicks at him, rather ineffectively. Nick doesn't bother to protect himself because Louis's still weak as a kitten, but when Louis's small foot bumps against his ribs for the third time, he gives him an unimpressed look.

"This is the first time you've seen Harry in weeks," Louis says. Nick makes a face and Louis grins at him through slowing tears.

"You're such a cock," says Nick.

Louis wiggles his eyebrows. "Are you nervous?"

"No."

"Liar."

Nick huffs a breath. "You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

Louis scoffs. "Yes. I made Liam work when all I want is for him to be right next to me for the rest of forever just so I can dabble in your love life, Grimshaw."

"How is he?" Nick asks. He's usually more willing to bicker with Louis, enjoys their banter, even, but Harry's going to be here soon, Nick's going to see him, and he needs to know what to expect.

Louis looks at him neutrally for a very long time before he answers. "He's all right. Back at work and they're keeping him busy. He's not _found someone new_ , if that's what you're asking."

"It's _not_ what I'm—"

"Mm-hm," Louis says.

Nick shoves at his chair so it rolls back a bit, and Louis makes a disgruntled sound and flails his good leg at him uselessly. Nick leans back onto his elbows and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. Louis's commented more than once on his chicken legs, but Nick doesn't think they're too bad. Long, anyway. He's never had complaints.

"I'm afraid to not wake up again," Louis says suddenly, a few minutes of calm, comfortable silence later. Nick tilts his head back to see him upside down. Louis's chewing on his thumbnail, a flush over his cheeks. He's still crying a bit, little hiccups as he tries to breathe through it. He wipes his eyes roughly again. "I'm afraid I'll leave Liam alone again. That's why I'm having trouble sleeping." 

Nick looks at him for a long time, and then sits up so he can grip Louis by the ankle and pull him closer again. "Liam's a big boy."

Louis shakes his head. "I mean everything to him."

"Awfully presumptuous, isn't it?"

Louis shakes his head firmly. "You don't understand. He. And I...We just need each other. He can't be okay unless I'm okay, so I have to be okay. I have to be _good_. He means everything to me, too."

"You're a bit of a romantic, Tomlinson," Nick drawls.

"Like you haven't been doodling _Mr. Nick Styles_ all over your notebook," Louis shoots back. Nick pinches him, and Louis kicks him, and they're mid lazy tussle when the door to the gym opens. Nick is pinned by the chest between one of Louis's calves and his wheelchair, and Louis is bent at the waist because Nick's pulling his hair when they both freeze to watch Harry, followed by Niall and Bressie, walk in.

"Oi, what's this then?" Bressie asks, tilting his head.

"Lou, why're you crying?" says Niall. "And you should loose your leg a bit, Grimmy looks purple in the face."

As one, they untangle themselves. Nick gets to his feet, brushing imaginary lint from his top and swimming trunks and clearing his throat importantly. Louis painstakingly turns his chair to face them and raises both arms at Bressie, looking terribly sad and sniffling dramatically.

"Aw, _Lou_ , did he make you cry?" Bressie asks, sweeping him out of his chair, towel and all. Bressie is pretty much a titan, so even though Nick knows that Louis is dense as hell, Bressie has no problem holding him up when Louis wraps legs and arms around him.

"I'm filing a complaint with the president of the hospital," Louis says into Bressie's shoulder.

"There is no _president_ of the hospital," Nick gripes.

Niall is grinning, up on his toes to curl Louis's fallen towel around his shoulders again. "Let's go get you changed into dry clothes, mate."

"Okay," Louis says, muffled and very sad.

Nick shakes his head and watches the three of them walk toward the locker rooms changing rooms. Once they're out of sight, he turns to Harry.

Harry, who looks fantastic, even as run down as he clearly still is. His curls are falling over his forehead and Nick has to fight the impulse to push them back out of his eyes. Harry's smiling, small but genuine. It hurts to breathe.

"Hey, Nick."

His voice is the same, deep and slow. Nick's name still sounds fucking amazing in it. "Hey Harry."

Harry's lips pull a bit wider, teeth flashing with his grin. Nick pads over to the stack of clean towels against the wall and picks up another. His hair is drenched still, drips sliding down his face and shoulders. He ruffles his curls roughly with the towel. Harry pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. They're unbelievably tight, as usual; he can only get his fingers in to the knuckles, and his mobile bulges out the right one.

"Lou all right?"

Nick nods. "Yeah, just pushed him pretty hard tonight. And he's tired. He's doing well."

"Is he everything you thought he'd be?"

Nick snorts. "And then some," he says dryly. Harry laughs. It's a good sound.

It's awkward as hell. The last time Nick saw Harry, Harry'd just had a mental breakdown. There'd been tears and snot and self-loathing on his face. He looks better now, but still stretched thin. He's still hunching his shoulders a bit like he's protecting himself. Nick doesn't know from what. Harry isn't one for confrontation, and that's fine, but Nick's chest feels like the bones are splintering just standing here with him.

"Look, Haz, I—"

"I miss you," Harry says, quiet and brutally honest. Nick's tongue claps against the roof of his mouth, and he can feel his eyes go wide. Boy's still keeping him on his toes. Harry looks up at him earnestly. "I mean, I know you probably don't want to hear it, since I'm the one that's been like, avoiding you. But I've missed you. It's really good to see you."

Nick wets his lips, tastes chlorine, and lets out a rough, light laugh. "'ve missed you too."

Harry hugs him. He's all awkward long limbs he'll probably never really grow into, coltish and unsteady even on still ground. Nick is still wet from the pool, but Harry doesn't seem to mind, and it doesn't stop Nick from looping his arms around Harry's waist, from feeling his heartbeat through his back with the palm of his hand. Harry smells like expensive shampoo and expensive cologne, and he's warm like a furnace. He feels familiar.

"Haz," Nick murmurs after a while, when he finds his voice again, when it doesn't feel like he's choking up shards of glass just to talk. Harry stands back, and Nick feels foolish and helpless. Harry's black t-shirt is spotty with water now, Nick's imprint against him. "You can't just…"

Just what, he doesn't know, but Harry's been able to read his mind since they met.

"I know," he says. He looks tired now, and sorry. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Nick, I just. Panicked. And when I was done panicking it just seemed easier to not...I mean."

"And now it doesn't?"

Harry's expression crumples momentarily, and he looks devastated. It takes him a moment to find his voice. "I'd given up on him. I promised myself I wouldn't, the whole time, ever since the wreck crash, but I'd given up on him. And being with you was like. Was like I was moving on, y'know? Without him. I hated myself for it. And what we did that night was...Their story isn't mine to tell, but no matter what it was disrespectful, and rude, and awful of us. Of me."

"Of both of us," Nick says, warily. He doesn't know where this is going. He never asked for an explanation.

"Of both of us," Harry agrees. He's quiet for a second, and then sighs. "I'm sorry I didn't ring. I'm sorry I avoided you."

"It doesn't matter. It's fine. I'm just. I'm glad you're all right."

"I'm all right," Harry says, his smile so sweet and so familiar. "Really, I'm—"

He's cut off by a shout from the changing rooms, and then the Nialls and Louis are clambering back into the gym. Louis's on Bressie's back this time, and Niall is leading the way. He and Bressie are significantly damper than they were a few minutes ago, while Louis is perfectly dry and dressed in trackies and a Batman t-shirt that obviously belongs to Liam. He even has socks on. There are goldfish on them. The three of them are laughing about something. Nick looks back at Harry.

"Haz."

"I think we can be friends," Harry says firmly, like he's been practicing. Nick's protest catches in his throat. "I want us to be friends."

"Yeah," says Nick, stomach flipping unpleasantly with disappointment.. "Yeah, of course."

Harry beams at him. The last time Nick saw that was in Nick's kitchen, bare-arse naked and seconds away from shoving four Oreos into his mouth, hair a right mess from Nick's hands in it earlier. Nick only tears his eyes away when Niall slams into his side, small and ridiculous, and Nick forces a laugh and wraps an arm around him.

"What're you two up to?" Louis asks shrewdly from Bressie's back.

Harry looks at Nick. Nick grins at Louis. "Just making friends, Tomlinson. That's all."

 

 

Being friends with Harry is crap.

"This is crap," Nick tells Greg.

They're at Nick's house. It's technically a party that he's hosting. It's turned into most of his friends lounging around in the living room smoking weed and drinking and growing increasingly more philosophical as the night wears on. Harry is on the floor, Nick's cat held—quite against Peter Davison's will—in his lap. Apparently, in their time apart, Harry lost all control of himself. Thanks to Harry, Nick now owns several outfits for his cat, including three hats. One came with booties. He also has a piece of rubbish hanging on his bedroom wall (Harry was trying so hard to do art well that Nick couldn't tell him the thing he bought was hideous and instead wakes up to the sight of it every morning), and new slippers for Nick, because the ones he's been wearing for the last five years are worn and holey. The new ones have crescent moons on them. They're ridiculous. _Harry_ is ridiculous. Nick loves him.

Harry's talking to Alexa, their heads together. Alexa is sketching something on the back of a receipt she found in the drawer of Nick's coffee table. Harry's sitting there on his floor with his hair pinned back into a kind of twist so it's out of his face and he's smiling and wearing fucking _jeggings_. Nick wants to peel them off him. He wants to make everyone else leave and push Harry down onto his sofa and kiss him and touch him and fuck him.

Nick is on his sofa alone, though. Well, with Greg. Greg is giant and warm and Nick is higher than he's been since Glastonbury the year before last, when he woke up to three hundred pictures on his camera of people's feet. Greg's arm is around his shoulders, and his fingers push into Nick's hair and pull. Nick makes a protesting noise, but can't be arsed to actually say anything.

"Do you remember when Chess first started after you?"

"No," Nick says mutinously.

"And you kept saying you didn't know if it was the right thing to do? Because it might mess everything up?"

"Tch," says Nick. And then, "Do you think he fancies Alexa?"

"Yes," Greg says dryly. Nick elbows him in the stomach. He makes an over-dramatic noise that catches Harry's attention, and Harry looks around at them with his mouth pulled into a smile and his lips very pink and Nick's stupid cat in his arms. He's got dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He's like Louis. Not sleeping. Blaming himself. He's drunk. He looks drunk. Nick tilts his head and blows a raspberry at him. Harry laughs. It's not a real laugh. None of this feels real.

"Turns out I was right, wasn't I?" says Nick to Greg. "I fell in love. He fell out of it."

"You had three years together, Nick. That's not exactly a failed relationship. It wasn't always unrequited."

"You smell like cabbage," Nick hisses.

"That's my egg roll," says Greg, and shows Nick his egg roll. Nick dips his head and bites the rest of it out of his hand, laughing around it until he's choking when Greg cries out angrily and shoves him off the sofa. He almost brains himself on the coffee table, but Harry saves him, hauls him out of the way so he ends up sprawled on his back instead. Harry leans over him, _giggling_ , dimples in his cheeks.

 

 

The Tuesday night before the Wednesday Louis's due to be released from hospital, Nick treks up to his room on the fifth floor to attach his PT chart to the rest of his medical file. It's nearly ten and now that he's awake the hospital is more stringent on visiting hours, so he decides to spend a few minutes shooting the shit with a bored Louis before he meets Pixie for drinks.

Instead, he walks in quite unprepared for the sight of Harry on Louis's bed, curled into Louis's arms, shoulders shaking and face buried into Louis's chest as he cries. His big hands span over Louis's back, fingers curled into claws, holding on tight enough that his knuckles are white. He doesn't notice Nick, but Louis does. Nick meets his gaze over the top of Harry's head. Louis's face and eyes are dry, and he looks relatively calm. The sight of Harry like this has Nick's heart racing, his throat closing up. Louis closes his eyes and nuzzles into Harry's curls, rubbing slow circles on his back with his little hand, arms flexing to pull Harry in closer.

"You're all right, love," he murmurs. "'ve got you. It's all right."

Nick ducks back out of the room, skin prickling all over his body.

The next night during Louis's appointment, Nick tries to work out how to bring it up. "So, hey, let's play twenty questions."

Louis, panting a little in the wake of swimming three full laps, raises an eyebrow, but Liam, who's joined them, perks up excitedly from his spot poolside, shorts rolled up a bit and legs dangling in the water. "I'll go first!"

It's not exactly what Nick was getting at, but he nods. "All right."

"I'm ready," says Liam.

"Is it a person?" Nick asks.

"Yes."

"Batman," Louis and Nick say at the same time.

"Nope! I. _Oh_ , yeah," Liam says, rather sadly.

Nick and Louis laugh, and Liam flushes and crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. Louis glides over to him to squeeze his calf and kiss him on the knee. It's cute and all, but Nick needs answers.

"My turn."

"Beyonce," Louis guesses. Nick, sitting on the second step into the pool, kicks water at him.

"Why was Harry crying last night?"

Liam's eyebrows go up and then draw together, and he looks at Louis worriedly. Louis's face is carefully blank. It's obnoxious how good he is at that. Nick's used to Harry, who wears his bleeding heart pinned to his sleeve. For a second, he thinks Louis won't answer, but then Louis rolls his eyes, like Nick's being annoying, and says, "Because he blames himself for the accident."

"And you told him it wasn't his fault," says Nick.

"Thought this was twenty _questions_ ," Louis says stroppily. Nick narrows his eyes, and Louis sighs. "Yes, Nicholas, I told him it wasn't his fault. Of course it wasn't his fault. You said it's your turn, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions?""

"Why'd you wait so long?" Nick demands. "He's barely been sleeping. He had a – a mental _breakdown_ not that long ago. He's been out of his head about it."

"This isn't any of your business," Louis says. Liam is looking between them, teeth sunk into his bottom lip, and Louis looks stern and irritated now.

" _Harry_ is my business," says Nick.

It's possibly the stupidest thing he could have said, and he said it in front of Louis Tomlinson. Louis's expression lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. "Awfully entitled, aren't you? Seducing a _patient_ , and then leading him on like he means something to you when he's really just this rebound fuck you're kind of fond of. Like a pet."

"You don't know anything about me," Nick growls. "You don't know—"

"I know what Harry's told me. Minus all the bullshit sop because he thinks you hung the bloody moon or summat. You're good at your job, Grimshaw, but you've fucked him up enough. Leave him al—"

"Louis," says Liam.

It's quiet, but carrying, and Nick's huffing up to start shouting back at this obnoxious little twat who shouldn't be allowed to have a fucking opinion on the last five months, but it all gets caught in his throat. Liam looks at Nick for a long time, and then folds himself in half so his belly touches his thighs and he can wrap Louis up, fold his arms over Louis's chest and pull him in between his calves pressed to the side of the pool.

"Nick loves him," Liam says. Louis frowns darkly, pretty eyes still narrowed on Nick. Liam's lips touch his cheek, the skin just inside his ear. Louis's eyes flutter closed against his will. Liam slides one hand down to palm over the ugly scar on Louis's belly, back up to tap a beat against his ribcage. "Nick's in love with him, Lou."

Louis's quiet. Nick's quiet. Liam starts to hum. He's got a good voice. Eventually, Louis pulls away, fingers lingering on Liam's leg for as long as he can before he wades back over to Nick to start his laps again. Nick looks down at him. Louis's at least a head shorter.

"No more games," Louis says.

Nick doesn't know if he means their game of twenty questions, or something else, but he nods. "Fair enough," he replies. His voice is a bit hoarse. He clears his throat and nods toward the other end of the pool. "Three more. Go on."

Louis does. Nick glances over at Liam, but as it's been since Nick met him and probably years before, Liam only has eyes for Louis.

 

 

There's a playground near the studio where Harry works. Nick's lying flat on his back on the even ground between two swings. It's the first of June and unseasonably warm. He's in cut-offs and a Metallica t-shirt and flip-flops, but the air still feels heavy and oppressive.

"Like my soul," Nick says aloud, in a deep, dark voice. He's been waiting for Harry for almost an hour. It's nearing eleven. They're going to a midnight film at this little cinema that's showing _Le pacte de loups_. Harry was a little kid when it first came out, he's never seen it. Nick wants him to experience Vincent Cassel wielding a bone sword. It's a spiritual awakening.

He's working his way through a small bag of Maltesers, which are melty and smearing chocolate on his hands. Harry strolls up just as he's sucking the last of it off his middle finger, brown suede shoes nudging at the sole of Nick's flip-flop.

"Sorry I'm late," he says.

"Should be," Nick replies. He's going to sit up and make room, but instead Harry curls loosely into the big divot left by innumerable dragging feet right under the swing to Nick's left. He pillows his cheek on one folded arm. Nick turns onto his side to face him.

"There's this shitty little band recording," Harry says. His voice is deep and a bit gravely, like his throat might be sore. He blinks his big eyes at Nick, unconsciously sweet. "They're not like, good. The girl needs vocal training and the guys can play their instruments but don't seem to know anything about like, music, really. But they love it, y'know? Like just...they can't believe they're in there, recording for real, and they're trying so hard, and they love it. It's really cool to watch."

He's smiling, cheeks flushed a little, probably embarrassed. He gets embarrassed over the weirdest things. Nick likes to whittle away at them, make him redden up again and again. He'll walk around bare-arsed pretty much anywhere without batting an eye but talking about some shitty band makes him nervous and insecure. Nick reaches over to push the curls off Harry's forehead, out of his eyes. Harry looses a quiet laugh.

"You've been sleeping better," says Nick.

Harry wets his lips. His expression doesn't go closed off like it usually does whenever the accident is brought up. "Yeah. I'm. Yeah. It's getting easier. Did you bring me--?"

Nick rolls his eyes and digs around in the messenger bag he brought with him to sneak sweets into the cinema. He passes Harry's Jelly Babies to him, watches Harry light up like Nick's just handed him gold and tuck the package neatly into his chest, hugging it like it's a doll. 

"I don't want to be your friend," says Nick.

Harry lifts an eyebrow. "Um, _ow_."

"No, no," says Nick. He throws his empty, balled up Maltesers wrapper at Harry. It hits him in the center of the forehead and leaves a mark because he's so pale. "That's not what I mean."

Harry looks at him for a very long time, frowning. Nick hums and tugs at the collar of his t-shirt. His nipples are oddly hard, even though it's so warm. He fights the urge to laugh.

"Maybe," says Harry, "you should tell me what you _do_ mean."

Nick flops onto his back again, arms stretched out wide. His forearm smushes into Harry's hair, and he presses his feet together, crucifixion position. It's smoggy as shit in London. There aren't any stars to see in the sky. Takes the romance out. His heart is pounding. 

"I don't want to be _just_ your friend," he says. 

Harry's quiet. Nick doesn't dare look at him. He holds his breath until Harry finally speaks, inhaling harshly through his nose as he listens.

"I thought. I thought you still had feelings for—"

"What?"

"You're still hung up on Chess," Harry says, sounding a little lost. "That night after Liam walked in on us. And you didn't deny it. I thought..."

"I lied," Nick says. This isn't going at all like he wants it to, as far as completely unplanned declarations go. "Not about. I mean when I told you that Chess and I breaking up was a mutual thing. It wasn't."

"Nick, man. You're not actually answering."

Nick laughs like it's startled out of him. He closes his eyes for a second against the prickle in them, forces them open and onto the cloudy black sky again. His voice comes out in stutters, stilted. It stopped feeling like an open wound a long time ago, but the scab still stings.

"He met someone else. We were together for three years and in love and shit and it wasn't—I wasn't enough. He had all of me. I gave him everything and it wasn't enough. He met someone he could love more."

"Nick," Harry says, and he sounds so devastated and sympathetic that Nick has to cut him off from saything anything else.

" I'm not hung up on Chess. I'm hung up on feeling, like, insubstantial. Losing him sent me packing to fucking _Minnesota_. I don't think there's anywhere I could run far enough to get away from losing you."

It's still, and quiet. Nick wishes there was traffic on the road or something, anything to listen to. But there's not, just Harry's slow breaths. Harry tugs on Nick's arm, guides it down by Nick's side so he can slot their hands together. Their fingers intertwine, their palms touch. Harry's skin is warm. They're both a bit sweaty from the still heat, and the light from the lamps around the playground is overly bright and unflattering. Nick's mouth is dry.

"I like your house," Harry murmurs after a very long time. Nick turns his head to face him. Harry's smiling a little. He squeezes Nick's hand and grins wider, deeper, right into his dimples. "I like your vinyl collection and all the booze you keep stocked and your green bed sheets and your ironic hipster cat that you're allergic to. And I like your hair and your eyes and how long your legs and arms are and how you kiss me in the morning time." 

"Hazza," Nick says, choked.

"I don't want to be just your friend either."

Nick swallows. "Yeah?"

Harry nods awkwardly with his head still resting on one arm. He's pink-cheeked, beaming his dopey smile. It makes Nick ache. "Yeah," says Harry. "I'm really, really glad we met. Circumstances aside, I mean. I've really missed you. I think. I think we'll be great."

Nick nods slowly. He wants that. He wants to be great with Harry. "Haz?"

"Mm?"

"Do you want to go see a film with me? Starts in twenty minutes. I was gonna go with a friend, but I think that's off the table now. There's lots of scary parts. Think it's more of a date film anyway."

Harry laughs and crawls out of his little ditch. He drops on top of Nick like a rock, their arms twisting awkwardly with their hands still caught together, Harry's Jelly Bellies sliding off Nick's side. Harry's mouth tastes sweet, like flavored lip balm. Nick curls his hand around the nape of Harry's neck. Maybe they'll skip the film. Nick's bed and Harry have missed each other. It's time they get reacquainted.

 

 

Liam and Louis get properly married in August.

It's hot as the fires of Hell outside, but comfortably cool in the glitzed-out hotel ballroom that's been hired for the reception. Louis's walking with a cane, will be for another six months, at least, and his physical therapy is down to three times a week. He looks good, dressed to the nines for his big day, in contacts instead of his glasses and his hair artistically mussed tousled. Liam looks like James Bond, even with the silly crinkly-eyed smile on his face. He and Louis are at the front of the room, talking with Zayn and Perrie, both Nialls, and Harry's mum. Nick watches Louis break into unrestrained laughter where he's tucked against Liam's side. He turns his face into Liam's shoulder and Liam chuckles into his hair.

"God, but they're darling," says Pixie. She's sitting next to him, her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. She is quite literally the only reason that Louis is still alive. She's likely to be invited to every Tomlinson-Payne family gathering for the rest of her life. She smiles at him. "We did good, Grimmy."

"We did all right," Nick agrees.

Harry disrupts the festivities by tripping over his own feet when he returns from the loo, flailing spectacularly in his custom tux. He manages to keep himself mostly upright, and looks around like he's hoping no one noticed until his eyes land on Nick. Nick applauds him daintily and Harry heaves a sigh from across the room, but his face splits into an embarrassed smile. He drops into the empty chair on Nick's right as soon as he's close enough.

"Well done, Styles," Pixie says dryly. Harry clears his throat.

"Thanks. I try."

"Hey," says Nick, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders, "leave my boy alone."

Pixie scoffs, but Harry's all smiles. He grips Nick by the chin and leans in for a kiss.

 

THE END.

=========================  
 _ **Ending Notes:** Just a small note here to say that, as you can tell, I almost completely ignored muscle atrophy in this fic re: Louis. After five months Louis wouldn't be able to sit up, let alone start PT right away, and from what I understand his rehabilitation just to be able to walk on his own again could've taken literal years. I opted to take the TV/movies route with this to suit my purposes. :)_


End file.
